


Tumultuous Earth, Emptied Heavens

by domesticheart, Kyky25



Series: Heavenstuck & Hellbent AU + Others [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Homestuck, Supernatural
Genre: A Kind of Fix-It 'Verse, A desperate bid for a plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters & Ohgodwhat, Alternate Universe - SBURB/SGRUB Sessions Got Hecked Up, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Discussion of Heaven/Religion?, F/F, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Kanaya is an angel, Karkat is a human, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Probably some blasphemy, Some Humor, Sorta episodic but not quite, Together they are: Idiots, Very Modestly-described Nudity, heavenstuck, not-natural occurences and beasts, to be updated very sporadically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 67,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticheart/pseuds/domesticheart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyky25/pseuds/Kyky25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Heavenstuck AU)</p><p>In which Kanaya is an angel, Karkat is a human, and together they attempt to fix everything wrong with the world as we know it. </p><p>Well, kind of.</p><p>Or, that one story where there are two very different Crowleys, Aziraphale doesn't quite know what's going on, SucroCorp and Betty Crocker team up to enslave/eat humanity, Rose steals the Bentley, Jade is a bad-ass truck driver, dead people are resurrected, there are a ton of fallen angels to look after, ghosts seek revenge, and everyone is scrambling to prepare for Armageddon Round Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural/Homestuck AU Crossover.
> 
> Epilogue partially taken from the Daily Drabble collection of [Kyky25](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyky25) . I had to alter the ending a bit to make it fit into the grand scheme of things, though! They are a wonderful person and a fantastic writer; go give them prompts and much love.
> 
>  
> 
> [OFFICIAL HEAVENSTUCK AU PLAYLIST!](http://hypster.com/playlists/user/domesticheart?7125013)

Kanaya flitted among the clouds, shaping wisps of vapor with the tips of her feathery wings as she skimmed through the heavens. Normally she would take her time and relax while flying, but not today.

Today the fledglings had escaped and it was her job to find them and bring them back to the play area before any archangel found out, or worse, some mishap befell them.

Something twinged in her senses. They had made it down to Earth. Groaning, she followed the signal and arrived to find three of them flapping around an unfortunate butterfly, although none of them had dared to do anything more than look upon it quizzically. Not one of them could bear to risk harming one of their Father’s creations.

With a sigh, she gently scooped them up in her wings and coddled them with the steady light of her Grace, before once more ascending towards the Heavens above.

All was well.

☼☼☼

When still only a few millennia old, Kanaya had been bound and determined to learn of her Purpose, or her Role in the Lord’s vast Creation. It was of the utmost importance to her that she find out at soon as possible, as others had already learned of theirs when their time had arisen and she simply could not allow for herself to be outdone. However, that could mean that she would need to wait possibly a whole other thousand years, maybe even longer, in order to hear of it, and she simply couldn’t bear the thought of that happening. No, Kanaya had to devise a master plan to get ahead of the system.

And that master plan was to sneak into the Throne Room of the Heavenly Father.

Because Kanaya was not senseless, she knew that it was a foolhardy idea, and if she were a good little fledgling she would be sure to abandon the idea post haste. 

She also knew that there was a brief point in time, right around when there was a recess from all the good little fledglings being taught how to write sigils, that the angels who were supposed to remain ever-vigilant at its doors would turn their attention to the ridiculous antics of the Cherubs who would pass by at an entirely too convenient time for her to slip inside. Of course, these Cherubs were to be told that there was a spectacular chance that it would rain sunshine and happiness nearby, so it was the perfect opportunity for Kanaya to slide by unnoticed.

She was entirely too smart for her own good. Yet, these events played out exactly how she wanted them to. When she entered, the fledgling angel had to bring all other intelligent thought to a halt in order to take in its magnificence. With a wide curiosity specific to fledglings, she gawked at it.

Light shone down on the base of the Throne, sweltering brighter than even the nearest star, and there were indescribable patterns arching across it in pale, emphasized impressions. Columns lined the walls, their surfaces appearing vaulted and compelled to be ridged in seamless chorus. The room had a high ceiling that seemed to extend forever, and the entire place was bathed in golden light.

As she wandered inside, gazing around at the splendor of the Lord’s Throne Room, she immediately noticed that this was sort of anticlimactic to be a part of her grand, flawless plan. At least, if it was working out correctly, which she was now not too certain of.

And all of a sudden, all of her worries were dispelled when a voice from On High spoke unto her.

_Kanaya, Angel of Motherhood and Light, what do you seek?_

☼☼☼

At first, Kanaya did not like her Role. She knew that it had been predetermined far before her creation, but she couldn’t help but resent it, at least in small increments.

She had wanted to be a warrior. A great one, too. One that would fly into battle on great gossamer wings, flames fluctuating around her, white-hot, invincible. She’d told everyone in her garrison this, with a tiny, miniscule sliver of pride, but not much because pride is a sin and angels do not sin. They had all agreed in friendly like-mindedness that she would make a splendid warrior, and Kanaya had been assured of her fate. But with only a few words spoken to her by her Father, she had become uncertain.

One major cause for her concerns was that she did not have a true grasp of what motherhood was. It was a foreign idea, she guessed, to most of her brethren, and she was almost ashamed of her title because of it. She attempted to suppress all of her doubts out of respect for the Creator, but still she meandered about uncertainly. Her studies suffered for it, too, and her instructor told her as much. 

It was with great reluctance and growing despair that Kanaya found herself in the Library.

Luckily, not many others were there, and all of them appeared to be much older than herself. With a sigh of relief, Kanaya went to one of the nearest shelves and inspected it closely. Much to her dismay, she found that not one book on that shelf pertained to motherhood. Instead, they all concerned the courting affairs of dung beetles. She could not believe her rotten luck. Moving on to the next shelf and after examining its contents closely, Kanaya finds that these books, too, do not pertain at all to maternal matters. With a small hiss of frustration, she searched the next shelf. And the next shelf. And the next.

Finally, with a dejected sigh, Kanaya sank to the floor flanked by two bookshelves and wept hopelessly.

It was not long before a comforting presence arrived nearby, and prompted her for an explanation of her distress. Kanaya explained woefully to the kindly angel, who emanated knowledge and goodwill like sunshine towards her, that she could not for the life of her find a book or scroll that pertained to motherhood. It is extremely important to her that she finds one as soon as possible, Kanaya stressed, because she is beginning to feel vexed and useless without having a full understanding of her Role, and that simply won’t do if she is to serve Heaven well.

The other angel nodded in understanding, appearing to consider her dilemma very seriously. Then, with a derisive nod dictated by the angel, a book appeared nearby that had the words, “The Trials of Motherhood,” printed across it in bold lettering. With an excitable flap of her wings, which the other angel mildly disapproved of because it seemed a mightily precarious situation for any nearby books, Kanaya expressed her gratitude towards the other angel and flew out of the Library as quickly as possible.

She had some studying to do.

☼☼☼

Beside a small duck pond in one of her favorite human heavens, Kanaya flipped through the pages of her now-prized book. She intended to absorb all of the information she could from its aged pages, scrape up every single bit of precious knowledge that she could.

That is, until a blur of feathers and bright blue eyes swiped it right out from under her!

Shocked, Kanaya immediately peered around for the culprit, but could find none. Not a trace, they must be a skilled thief! With an annoyed huff, Kanaya allowed for her Grace to seep into her surroundings, careful to avoid the lovely ducks, and soon found the perpetrator. A fledgling, one that was quite a bit younger than herself, too.

Thoroughly bothered by such a blatant act of ill will, Kanaya called out to the little one. _Give me my book back! Do you not know that it is a sin to steal things from others?_

The other seemed confused at her words, but the very moment the word “sin” had reached their ears they immediately rushed to rest beside her and extend the book to her waiting grasp. 

_Thank you,_ Kanaya said, huffily, and squinted down at the much smaller fledgling. _Castiel, yes?_ The pint-sized angel nodded, obviously worried that there would be repercussions for his near sinfulness. _Alright, then. I am Kanaya, the Angel of Motherhood and Light, and I am using this book to learn more about my appointed title, see?_ She tapped the cover. The other nodded in understanding. _Good. Then you see why it was very bad of you to snatch it right out from under me, yes?_ Castiel nodded again. _Good, now go on and play with the nice ducks, and leave me be._

The fledgling readily agreed, more than willing to do anything to appease the one who might report them to a more superior angel, and flew off to do as Kanaya bid. With a small sigh, Kanaya returned to her book, and read the first couple of lines. And then read them again. And then again.

When the agreeable realization hit, Kanaya called out to Castiel again, and told him not to get to close to the water’s edge, although more gently than with her previous orders. She also cautioned him to be more careful around the ducks, as they are God’s creatures and to be cherished.

_“The most important thing a mother must always be sure to do is look out for her children. Even in a situation that may appear to be safe, a mother must be ever vigilant against the dangers of the world. A mother must also be sure to make her child aware of such dangers, and warn them of… ..”_

☼☼☼

After a while and much practice, Kanaya discovered that she was exceptionally good at mothering. It seemed like it was her life’s calling, which, in a sense, it was, but she was far too pleased with her success to chalk it up entirely to fate alone. Predestination be shushed, she had found something to excel at!

Joyously, she would whisk fledglings around and teach them all sorts of things, such as the dangers of sharp edges and fire safety. They all seemed to hold her lessons in high esteem, and Kanaya was pleased.

Even a few of the older, more superior angels notice her evolving competency. Some are sure to offer a well-placed complement here and there, meant for encouragement and support. Kanaya appreciates these, and feels that small fragment of pride within her swell up momentarily whenever one is received with gracious gusto. She becomes more devoted to better serving the Host and her Father because of this, and it is an all-around good thing.

Others, however, are less polite, and on some days she finds herself cooing over some unfortunate fledgling for far longer than is absolutely necessary, a practice that she has often employed for more comfort to herself than for the children she dotes on.

☼☼☼

She is beginning to slip away. Already, she can feel that something within her has been quelled beyond return, at least not for a long while. Kanaya does not understand the reasoning behind any of it, as none of her kindred angels have seemed to notice. In fact, they haven’t really seemed to notice her at all. 

One brushes past her, and Kanaya reaches out, beckoning them to her, but they do not appear to hear her cries for aid. She withdraws, and stays her Grace from becoming any more unsettled. Her still mind races, conversely, and she finds herself considering notions that she had never thought possible before. Has her Purpose been fulfilled? Is there nothing left for her to procure from the Heavens around her? Is it because there are no new fledglings to care for, the others matured enough to brush off her well-meant wingtips?

It is then that Kanaya hears a song, unlike any other, horrible and beautiful all at once, that calls out to her from one of the furthest reaches of Heaven. It is made of the anguished cries of many, and the rapture of the few. Her attention is captured by it, and Kanaya trails towards the achingly tender melody. She can no longer distinguish between the convoluted clouds and the blue sky, and so she drifts.

There is a mountaintop, peppered with soft, downy snow and frost. Kanaya hears the tutting of doves, and watches as vines gradually grow to wind around pillars that surround some sort of raised area of ground, vibrant grape leaves sprouting at different intervals. She moves towards the assortment of columns, feeling compelled to do so by some other power. 

As she approaches, she notices that there is a great slab of rock of laid out betwixt the pillars, and is momentarily stalled by the oddity of it. A kind tug at her Grace proves false all concern, however, and Kanaya is balanced above the slab when she regains herself. 

A steady flood of tranquility fills her senses, and Kanaya finds herself drowning in it. Briefly, she panics, and resists this flow with all of her just might. 

Soon, she is lost to the oblivion of a deserved sleep.

☼☼☼

Far beyond the round Worlde, whence many-angl'd beings stirr'd and shift'd realities like an abysmal murky tidal wave, thither was nothing to be had but the pure blackness of the void. If a mere human wast to be expos'd to it f'r too long, they would certes go nimble-footed, as the whispers of these creatures grat'd at the mind and ripp'd it apart only to stitch it back together again into some macabre puppet that would better serve their purposes.

This was the Furthest Ring, distant enough from the marble of earth and sea to meddle in the affairs of any other lesser creatures. Its ebb and flow was timeless and unsettling in its turmoil.

The Lord was not at all affected by the many voices of the dark emptiness; howev'r He did call to mind that perhaps the heaven of heavens*, the home of the heavenly Host outside of his belov'd Earth, would require a source of illumination, or at least guidance. 

“Let there be Light,” the Lord spake, with a voice not too dissimilar to Morgan Freeman’s. 

“What If I Do Not Feel That I Am Rested Enough? There Will Surely Be Much Work To Do When I Awake. Leave Me Be.” The Light sighed, clearly not intending to rouse itself.

“Don’t you sass me,” He said, yet granted the Light prolonged respite.

☼☼☼

Sometime after this exchange, the Lord ceased speaking to the Host.

There were whispers of abandonment, tinged with grief and fear. Some were more than skeptical, and they set poisonous rumors swirling around of possible new management without His guidance.

All of these musings were silenced when the Archangel Michael began to speak.

☼☼☼

There is a steady, gentle lull that has confined her in a dreaming state. It is not unwelcome, and she allows for it to cradle her for a seemingly indeterminate amount of time.

She is wading through vast fields of lavender, and the breeze carries their pleasant aroma. Although she cannot remember being delivered here, there is no sense of disquiet within her. Here, she thinks, is her own personal rapture.

A soft hum reigns over the land, where light falls like rain in a brilliant, shining cascade. Drifting, she comes upon a honeybee, and extends her Grace towards it. Joy rises up into her throat in song before being swiftly washed over with a sea of calm.

She dreams of golden winds, and a pale sky. Her only guidance is a growing sense of purpose within her breast.

She can hear voices, each one holding some amount of sway in how her dreams progress.

Many band together and sing, in harmonious accord, and she feels at peace. Two voices come to be at odds with one another and other rally behind them in a crashing crescendo. It sounds like war, clashing and indiscernible cries, until finally some of the voices fade and the chorus returns. She stirs, but does not wake.

While she is asleep, some of her favorite voices, the most expressive and passionate ones, fade away, and she cannot determine the cause for their silence. She grasps for them in her sleep, desperately seeking them out, but is unsuccessful. Eventually, she forgets about them, and is pleased with the voices that are still humming at the very edge of her awareness.

Over time, some voices become more recognizable. Authoritative, but directed at others. The others sound in agreement, although there are a few who seem to be wailing silently in some sort of desperate plea. She does not comprehend, and so she does not rise from her slumber. 

One voice cries out in sorrow, another in triumph, and the rest **s c r e a m.**

_Dreamer, awake!_

☼☼☼

Somewhere, two men who have been to Hell and back one too many times sit upon the sleek black hood of a 1967 Chevy Impala while dozens of blazing lights streak across the expanse of starry blackness above them. This is no mere meteor shower. 

They both watch as the angels fall. 

Not much is spoken.

☼☼☼

Elsewhere, a young man is going in for a no doubt long and grueling workday. He is still tired from the night before, so at first he believes the lights in the sky must be his mind playing a trick on him. But, when the strange sight in his peripheral vision persists, he stops just outside of the doors of his workplace to gaze up at the sky.

His jaw drops open in wonder. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of brilliant lights coursing across the sky. It is enough of an awe-inspiring sight that he forgets that he is standing in front of a pair of sliding glass doors, and only snaps out of his trance when a person bustles out between them, slamming into him in their haste to reach their car before the winter cold becomes too unbearable.

“Watch it, asshole!” They bark over their shoulder, shrugging their coat tightly around their shoulders.

For a brief moment, Karkat is too dazed to respond. He soon recovers, however, and flips them a pair of the finest middle-fingered salutes in the world, carefully crafted by the rage-pooled cesspool that is his soul.

The stubborn young man turns to enter the establishment in which he works, and can already feel his manager’s scathing glare through the glass and “50% Off!” signs. He grimaces.

With one final silent and wordy insult tossed into the gaping jaws of the unmerciful universe, Karkat’s workday begins.

☼☼☼

The wailing recedes almost as soon as she jerks awake, but Kanaya can still hear the ghostly ringing down to her very core. It is perplexing at first, when she comes into consciousness, that she can no longer hear any singing. The ever-present Choir has now fallen silent, for some ineffable reason.

Her chest feels empty when she begins to contemplate her surroundings. She does not recall falling asleep, but she lets the comfort of familiarity settle over her when she recognizes the place she had come to rest in. For how long she has been resting, however, she does not know.

Yet, she does know that something is terribly amiss.

It is too quiet. The silence feels wrong, and she has never truly known it if she is being entirely honest with herself. Until now, that is. The song has always been there before, somehow validating her purpose, maybe even her entire existence.

She cannot remember her purpose. For a terrifying moment she is scrambling at shards of thoughts, concepts, trying to recall—

Of course. She had been the one to tend to the Lord’s metaphysical flock, but she is certain that her duty has been irreparably shirked. The sheep have been left to roam too widely, she deduces, if she can no longer hear them. Suddenly, it occurs to her that perhaps her new Role is to retrieve them, and return them to Heaven. Which she knows must be done, as they would still be singing loud enough for her to hear if they were spread to even the farthest reaches of their home.

Kanaya has a sneaking suspicion that something is afoot. “Fishy,” one could declare, although Kanaya does not speak aloud for fear—

She is not an idiot; there is still a presence skulking about, and she cannot, must not risk herself by speaking too soon. First, she must determine whether they are friend or foe.

There is still a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she speculates on where her brethren may have gone. This sense of wrongness expands until a tiny idea slinks into the forefront of her mind, and Kanaya dearly wishes that it hadn’t.

Kanaya does not like this idea, and attempts to cast it aside only to end up grappling with it further. Despair eats away at her mind as its plausibility finally comes to light. She had not wanted to believe it, to even consider it, but now she sees that this may be what has truly become of her kin.

They are earthbound, Fallen, and she, the seemingly forgotten Mother and Light, is going to retrieve and embrace them with her love.

Without investigating just who might be alone with countless numbers of human souls, free to do whatever they wish, Kanaya descends.

☼☼☼

Karkat Vantas is so done with this shitty day. This day can go fuck itself with a rusty screwdriver for all he cares. Hell, maybe even one of those tricked-out Swiss Army Knives. That’s how much he strongly dislikes this particular day.

But now, he can return home, although he is about ninety nine point nine percent sure that the leftovers in the fridge are stale. Fucking stellar, really. Thank you, Universe.

Nevertheless, he is making a heroic effort to get a grip, and only just resists flipping off his probably high-off-his-ass coworker when he hustles out of the sliding doors of the Kum-n-Go gas station he works at. A fine establishment, for fucking sure. If only he had a dime for every asshole who comes into the store only to make shitty jokes about the store’s name. Honestly.

He’s sick of sitting at a counter all day, staring blankly at bland walls and equally bland floors. He’s sick of the linoleum flooring, and the way the fridges shed vague colored reflections on it from artificial juices flavored like Super Berry Blue and Rad Red Raspberry. He’s sick of the headaches he gets from the blaringly bright lighting, and the meaningless, endless, ever-present muttering of a positively befuddled customer: Gee, I can’t find this package of peanuts; I always buy this brand of peanuts; I love me some good old-fashioned peanuts; Say, sonny, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find some nice peanuts, would you?

But most of all, Karkat is just plain tired.

Because he doesn’t have enough funds to afford a car or even a kiddie bicycle, he has to trudge through the remains of last week’s miniature blizzard. Perfect, an excellent way to top off the gigantic pile of horse defecation that is this day.

He knows perfectly well that he shouldn’t have stayed up until four-o’clock in the morning watching Fresh Prince re-runs. God knows, he is such an idiot. How has he even made it this far in life? Whatever deity threw him together and determined his destiny must be laughing their celestial ass off right now. Not that Karkat’s especially religious, but he still decides that he wants to kick whatever higher beings there are in the balls, the first chance he gets. Maybe with a steel-toed boot.

His feet crunch in the snow, which is mostly slush and reminds him of the shaved ice that his workplace distributes, and Christ-on-rollers does he need to stop associating everything with that damn gas station.  
He becomes even more enraged by his condition when some of the freezing liquid seeps through his favorite sneakers, which are supposed to be fucking, water-tight, or something. To express this emotion, he viciously lashes out at a pile of innocent snow, which turns out to be hard-packed ice despite its fluffy appearance. Karkat swears loudly and colorfully, and because he can’t wisely remove his sneaker to inspect the damage in the cold, he only hops around comically for a few moments while grumbling angrily.

When his foot isn’t aching with quite as much pain, which has now become only a dull throb, he once again returns his foot to the icy pavement with a squelch and resumes his arduous trek. 

It is only because of this minor, albeit incredibly painful, distraction that he does not become uncomfortably aware of the sensation that he is being watched.

☼☼☼

When she stumbles to her feet on a pair of wobbly human legs, Kanaya feels as if she is one of the many fledglings that she had patiently cajoled into unsteady flight. The student has become the master, or maybe that is not the correct phrasing. It is nevertheless embarrassing, to say the least. However, she has a difficult and trying task to perform, and must focus all of her attention to it.

Then, she sees her legs. Her arms. Her shoulders. 

She is the color of dark earth, the very same that the first of mankind had been forged from, and she loves it. There is shock of short black hair that is soft against the side of her face and ears, much like the dark sky thinning out for eternities above her, and she loves that, too. 

She has never dabbled in humanity, but she recognizes its unique beauty almost at once. 

With a curiosity akin to a kitten that has just discovered its own tail, Kanaya holds a hand in front of her face and coaxes the digits there into twitching slightly. Bemused, she soon learns that she can do the very same with her feet, and with that same amount of bewilderment takes the time to carefully chance a step forward. The ground is cold and wet, and it is sort of strange to feel it slipping between her toes with each slight movement she makes. She decides that she does not like the cold, and ignores it with a thought.

For a while, she simply paces about the clearing that she has landed in, delighted by the novelty that is the mortal body. Because there are no traces of a human soul within the vessel, she knows that it has been placed here, in this clearing in North America, for her use exclusively. Perhaps by the Heavenly Father himself. Taking a moment, she beams up at the sky, grateful for this unique and no doubt developing experience, before remembering the task at hand.

Ah, yes. The primary objective. She must seek out her kin, and return them to Heaven, straightaway! Unless this outing is meant to be a learning experience crafted by the Lord Himself? Then, it most certainly would not do for Kanaya to meddle with the grand plan, even though he isn’t being very specific, what with not speaking to her at all, but she wonders if she could perhaps enjoy humanity for a tad longer? 

The answer to this strain of thought is the beginnings of light snowfall, and Kanaya takes it as an encouraging sign.

Blissfully, she wanders off in a haphazard direction, and hopes for the very best.

☼☼☼

Karkat is a solitary gray figure, hood drawn to cover much of his face from the harsh weather, as he trudges unenthusiastically towards home. He has already passed through most of the meager civilization that this town can support, and now there is nothing before him but snow, snow, and, you-fucking-guessed-it, more snow. Without the lights from townhouses and workplaces to guide him, he’s starting to feel sort of lost. It seems like the snowstorm’s picked up where it left off.

By now his boiling rage at the world as a whole has quieted down into a more approachable snappishness, mostly because the energy he typically uses to maintain full-on rage mode is now being directed towards staying warm and scarcely walking. Even then, he isn’t really able to do that very well. He’s shivering like crazy, and no matter how much he hunches in on himself, he can’t get warm.

He feels so very tired.

Maybe, he thinks, he could sit down and rest for a while. Just a short while. Maybe close his weary eyes, gather his energy. Take a short, nice nap. _Fall into a warm, comfortable slee—_

Swearing profusely, Karkat just about tumbles into the nearest ditch as he almost falls asleep on his feet. He manages to catch himself before he gets quite that far, however, and staggers a little as he attempts to gain his bearings. 

He looks up and squints against the cascading snowfall. He could’ve sworn that he’d seen something there, something big and obvious, just for a split second. After a few beats of paranoid silence, Karkat pins it all on being overtired and resumes his unsteady march.

Soon after doing so, he finds himself swaying on his feet once again. He just doesn’t understand it, he’s stayed up right until he’s had to go to work before and he still has never been this exhausted. Focusing all of his effort on pressing forward against the onrushing storm, Karkat squints his eyes almost entirely shut, until they appear to be soundly closed to any observer. Suddenly, the hairs stand up on his neck in a way that isn’t from the icy cold at all, and Karkat’s eyes snap open.

There is certainly something big and obvious standing in the snow in front of him. It’s almost twice his height, dark-coloured, and slouching towards him with what appear to be more akin to long, spindly tree branches than limbs. Also, there is a gaping, freaky deer skull with teeth too wicked sharp to have actually belonged to the original stag, huge antlers that could probably gore a stone statue, and glowing red eyes that appear to be ablaze. The eyes seal the deal for Karkat.

Before whatever that thing is can so much as say howdy-doo, Karkat whips around and runs for, in his educated opinion, his pathetic excuse for a life.

☼☼☼

There are icy slopes gently curving as far as the eye can see, and the snow falls in clumps that settle in Kanaya’s hair and upon her bare shoulders. She combs at it with her fingers every once in a while, not for appearance’s sake or because of the cold that spreads from it, but because she likes to watch it melt. It is very interesting to her, how human skin reacts to foreign elements. Although she supposes that, since she is not actually human and has decided to ignore the cold, that it may just be her Grace prevailing against the chilly weather. In fact, she soon discovers that if she allows for her undetectable-by-human-eyes wings to spread out above her, that the snowfall doesn’t tumble into her hair at all.

It is immensely satisfying, she thinks, that she can do this. Wandering about in some of the most perilous phenomenon of the Lord’s Creation would be no easy task for a mortal being that has to be constantly concerned about simple things such as temperature and sickness.

One such mortal being slams into her while she is still distracted by the wonders of the world, and while she doesn’t budge an inch, the human splutters about in the snow before pointing a surprisingly scathing look at her. She had thought that only archangels could burn with such righteous rage.

“What the ever-loving fuck,” they shout, before their face screws up into an impressively disgusted look. “Are you _naked_?”

Kanaya looks down, and frowns. “Yes.” She answers, unsure of why this appears to be a problem for the human.

It is then that Kanaya feels something barreling towards them through the whiteness, and the human appears to hear it, too, if his prolific cursing is anything to go by. She summons a blade to her hand.  
“Holy shit,” the human exclaims, after noticing the weapon. “Holy fucking _shit_ , is that a sword? What, are you going to fight that thing? _What the Hell_.”

She doesn’t understand the meaning behind most of those swears, but decides that the vehemence with which they are spoken is more than enough to make up for her lack of knowledge on their origin. Looking the human dead in the sleep-deprived eyes, she crouches down slightly into a battle stance while facing the direction that the beast is fast-approaching from, preparing to make impact. “Yes, this is my blade,” Her inner mother screeches at her, fretting over the human. She frowns. “You look very tired, and cold.”

“Uhm, yeah.”

A large silhouette can be just barely made out in the storm, although it is still a good distance away. An excellent distance for her to pick up speed in. Kanaya focuses on it, and digs her heels into the close-packed snow with a definite crunch. Then, she tears through the falling snow and icy wind straight towards it, ignoring the fact that she probably looks incredibly ridiculous.

The fiendish being ahead screeches at her, voice howling along with the bitter cold wind in a frenzied refrain of malicious intent. Just as she finds herself staring directly into the hot coals that are set into the skull of some long-dead animal, she jerks to a halt, slides roughly down onto the unforgiving ground, and swings the blade straight through its middle. A sickening, slick noise accompanies this maneuver, and two separate thuds follow. 

Kanaya carefully stands, studies the blood coloring her blade and the carcass of the beast in turn, and then turns to face the human who is still lying on the ground, sodden with snow up to his elbows, and looking much more reverential than he had before.

“Wow,” he breathes, cowed. “You need some clothes, or something.”

 

☼☼☼

When his rickety house finally appears on the horizon, Karkat realizes that the naked chick appears to be wandering off in the wrong direction. 

“Hey!” He shouts, to get her attention. Startlingly green eyes whip around to look at him, and he’s a little intimidated by the amount of concentration the woman has turned on him. It’s a not a harsh look, just a bit unnerving. 

Weakly, Karkat gestures at his home in the distance. “That’s my house.”

With a preoccupied look about her, she turns her sea green gaze to stare at it for a moment. Then, she very precisely says, “It is a nice house. A decent source of shelter,” Her eyes shift back to him. “Did you construct it yourself?”

“Uhm, no.” Karkat warily replies. She seems to accept this fact, and nods silently to herself while gazing off to the side. Taking that as an okay reaction, Karkat hurries ahead, gasping on the cool air in his haste to get to his door before she does. He doesn’t want some nudist who he hardly knows having the knowledge that the house’s key is safely tucked under his “Home is Where the Heart Is!” doormat. He stoops down to get the key while making sure she isn’t looking. Nope, that would be disastro—

“Shit!” Karkat exclaims in surprise when he notices that she’s suddenly standing right fucking beside him as soon as he stands up. Hell, he hadn’t even heard her footsteps in the heavy snow. Her eyes narrow a tiny bit as she seems to take his brief terror in for processing, but otherwise she seems totally nonplussed. She’s even looking down to examine the message on his welcome mat.

Karkat, realizing that he’s obviously picked up some kind of mutant with super speed and an emotional deficiency, unlocks his door, and uses the weight of his body to shove it open with more force than necessary. Bits of ice that had frozen around the doorframe fall onto his head, but he brushes it away quickly before plodding off to find the thermostat and crank that shit up. It’s freakin’ freezing.

After turning the heat up quite a ways, Karkat makes a pit stop by a hallway closet. When yanking the door open and pulling on the rusty chain of the ceiling light overhead, Karkat hears the woman shuffling around his living room. Grumbling, he grabs the nearest quilt, which is decorated with purple and white Columbine flowers and plump honeybees, and angrily marches into to the living room. Once there, he finds that no harm has been done to his vast collection of Rom-Com discs, although there appears to be a steadily growing interest in them based upon the pensive expression on the woman’s face.

Hurriedly interfering before anything can be said or done, Karkat shoves the blanket in the chick’s general direction before booking it to the kitchen. He can feel her scrutiny searing into the back of his head the whole way there. Mysteriously, the feeling doesn’t seem to end when he’s safely inside the comfort of his kitchen. 

_Well_ , Karkat considers, _That’s one way to avoid an awkward confrontation._ And Karkat’s all about doing that.

He digs around in the cabinets for a while, searching for any kind of meager foodstuffs. Of course, every single cabinet is empty until the very last one he checks, which has a single, family-sized can of Chicken Noodle Soup setting upon its shelf. Ravenously, Karkat snatches it up and prepares the meal as hastily as possible in two separate ceramic bowls, dropping utensils into them as an afterthought.

Returning to the living room, Karkat finds that the chick still hasn’t moved from where he left her, and is occupied with examining the quilt. He coughs a little, to gain her attention, and pointedly averts his gaze when she turns to face him. He places the soup on the worn coffee table.

“You’re supposed to kind of drape that around you, see,” He makes a few hand motions, mimicking the act of draping a cover over his shoulders. Her countenance remains blank, and she does not go to drape the quilt over her shoulders. Karkat scowls at the wall. “It’s like… human decency to wear clothes, so if you wouldn’t fucking mind…” A pause, and then a brief rustling follows. Karkat turns, relieved, expecting her to be at least partially covered by the blanket.

To his surprise, she is not partially covered. However, this surprise never has the chance to ultimately turn to indignation because, instead of being only part of the way decent, the woman is fully clothed. It’s a nice outfit, too, and has a sort of stylish flare to it that Karkat can’t really comprehend due to having no interest in clothing beyond hoodies and pants. She is now wearing a grey, long-sleeved shirt, and a bright red skirt curves down and just barely reaches her ankles. The problem is, there are no women’s clothes in Karkat’s house. Even if there were, it would have taken her at least a few minutes to dress herself, and not two seconds.

“Alright,” Karkat says, head swimming a little from trying to wrap his head around this concept, his brain trying to process the impossible. “A-OK.”

A concerned look seems to be trying to take hold on the now apparently fully-dressed woman’s face, and she comes over to stand beside him and place a placating hand upon his shoulder. Staring into his face, she asks if he is going to lose consciousness. Karkat replies in the affirmative by promptly crashing to the floor.

 

☼☼☼

Rather than attempt to rouse her host, Kanaya effortlessly lifts him in both arms before nestling him upon the nearby couch. Regretfully, Kanaya brushes at the strands of dark brown hair that are covering his face. Throwing a quick glance around for the quilt that she had dropped in order to ascertain his health, Kanaya finds it and arranges the soft blanket over the human. She then openly stares at him for a moment, trying to determine the most comfortable position for his tired body to be in, and settles for adjusting the covering on top of him compulsively, tucking and untucking it in random places. 

Finally, when she is satisfied with her work, Kanaya decides to explore the human’s home.

First, she inspects the room that he had returned with the food items from. The floor is cold, tiled, and the rest is exceptionally dull. There are far too many sharp edges on the countertops for her liking, as well, and Kanaya grimaces at each new unclean area that she discovers. There is no way that this human could possibly be able to thrive like this, she surmises, and determines that she will tidy it up. With a short and simple thought, it is done, and Kanaya is pleased with her handiwork. She has saved this human from a terribly polluted existence.

Moving back into the room where the mortal is sleeping, Kanaya peers around at the various articles of clothing, books, and general filth. Complaining quietly to herself, as not to wake the human, Kanaya stoops to pick up these objects, avoiding the more unkempt areas. Her bare feet are efficient at avoiding patches of dirt and strange substances, and Kanaya is ever thankful for that. 

Humming softly, she bends down to pick up what she had assumed to be a book, but is startled to find that the familiar brush of coarse pages against her fingers is not present when she lifts it. With an inquisitive noise, she turns it over onto its side to examine it further, and is even more puzzled when faced with a sort of case-like contraption. She plucks at the place where it appears it might open, and is totally unprepared for the circular, flat, and shiny shape that tumbles out and shatters upon the floor. 

Slowly, Kanaya turns her head to see if the human has been disturbed by the clamor. The human snuffles a bit, but does not wake, and rolls over in his sleep into a seemingly disadvantageous and painfully contorted position. Kanaya returns to the task at hand.

With a soft murmur of incomprehension voiced under her breath, Kanaya crouches down and prods at the shattered pieces of polished material with a finger. Her mind likens it to glass, but she can already tell that the two are entirely dissimilar due to the shards of this object not being transparent. She considers miracle-ing it back together again, but upon further inspection of the room concludes that it would be best if she reserved her energy for later. And so, Kanaya scoops up what is left of the circular object, mindful of the human sleeping nearby, and dumps it on the floor behind the couch before swiping it underneath with her foot. Such a treacherous, sharp object should have been destroyed immediately, but she feels as if it would be in her best interest to simply hide it for now. 

She returns to the grueling process of tidying up the human’s home, and decides that it would be wise not to pry open any more mysterious containers. There is no telling what sort of chaos opening them would unleash upon the world, and Kanaya is certain that she will most definitely not be the unfortunate one to do so. Taking great care not to let any more of those peculiar cases fall open, Kanaya gathers each of them up into her arms and stacks them upon the tabletop next to where her human acquaintance had placed the bowls of warm, savory-smelling liquid.

It is not long before Kanaya finds herself digging through the very same hall closet that Karkat had been excavating beforehand in an effort to find a convenient place to store clothing and books. Most of the books, she notices, are of a romantic nature, but she files that away under unnecessary information to broach later. It is not of her concern. 

After clearing a large enough space to fit a nice amount of clothing into, Kanaya’s foot nudges something cold and smooth that is sitting on a lower shelf. She extracts herself from her mindless organizing up above, and stares down at the object.

It is oblong, organic in shape, and appears to have a large, jagged blade protruding from a clunky orange hilt. Curious as to what its true purpose may be, Kanaya hefts it in one hand while picking at the blade with the other. It is rusted all over, but it does appear to be a formidable weapon. She takes a practice swing with it, and finds that it will not serve well to do motions that her angel blade may carry out. Placing both hands upon the bulky hilt, which she finds rather unwieldy, Kanaya again strikes an imaginary enemy with the blade, and finds that this is a much more efficient technique. Placing it aside, the angel determines that she will ask the human later if she may have it. 

When he wakes, of course.

 

☼☼☼

When Karkat wakes up, his head is clear and he feels pretty optimistic about everything. His back is a little sore when he sits up, but overall it seems like this is going to be a pretty alright day. That is, until the memories of the past evening flood back into his mind and destroy all hope for a positive future. At least, that’s what he thinks.

Groaning, Karkat pulls the quilt up to hide from the sunshine that’s already flooding in through the mysteriously open shutters that are supposed to be sealed shut at all times. He hears tentative footsteps padding across his carpet, and as soon as they arrive right beside him, unsure, he throws the covering off of his face and glowers at whomever or whatever this person is. Unnaturally bright green eyes look back at him, and for a moment the both of them are silent contemplating each other. Then, the shit hits the fan when Karkat sees that the chick is holding a fucking chainsaw in her grip, and appears to be contemplating its many uses. He does what any honest-to-God human would do, which is, screech at the top of his lungs, throw himself over the back of the striped couch, and clamber away as quickly as goddamn possible.

He barely makes it to the door. He’s trying in vain to get it to open in his terror, when she literally materializes right next to him, and, with a contorted brow most likely caused by her confusion at his sudden fear, poses a mild statement, “I found this in one of you storage areas, it was not my intention to frighten you.” 

Karkat glares back, unsure of if he should still be repeatedly slamming his hand against the door to get it to open. Sure, she seems sincere enough, but you just never know with serial killers. Finally, he ceases abusing his front door, and grumbles back, “You can’t just show up places with a chainsaw, I thought you were going to saw me in half!” While saying this, his hand motions become increasingly more rabid, and he thinks that is what really drives his point home.

“Ah,” The woman replies, looking rightfully abashed. “I did not know this. I apologize.”

This is all said with such sincerity that now Karkat feels like the asshole, here. “Well, uh… that’s alright, I guess, as long as you’re sorry. Just, don’t do it again. Please. Whatever, forget about it.” 

Suddenly, Karkat remembers the randomly appearing clothes thing. He also begins to recognize that the abundant clothing and other stuff he usually has strewn about his home is mysteriously absent. Carefully speaking whilst asking things of a madwoman with a chainsaw, Karkat asks, “Did you… did you clean my house?” A note of horror leaks into his voice as he enunciates the last three words, but Karkat valiantly attempts to wipe away any horrified expression that strains to become evident on his face.

“Yes.” She answers, sounding content, apparently just fucking tickled that he’s noticed. Karkat sighs deeply, deciding to just let it go. He’d needed to clean up anyway, his place was a sty.

Continuing the trend of deciding to just roll with the weirdness, Karkat carefully treads around her, and makes his way towards the kitchen like a real trooper. Really, he should be given a medal of honor for the kind of freaky shit he deals with. He notices that the bowls of soup he had set down haven’t been touched, and mourns their loss briefly, for their warmth has been lost to time. The lady comes to stand next to him, and gazes placidly down at the same bowls of cold, useless soup that Karkat is grieving over.

“Is something the matter?” She asks.

Karkat crosses his arms over his chest, and irritably huffs through his nose at her. “The soup’s been sitting out all night, it’s as good as gone now. There’s nothing else left to eat in the cabinets, either.”

“Oh.” She replies, probably having found all the answers of the universe within the depths of a bowl of chicken noodle soup, what with the intensity she’s staring into one with. Karkat resolves to make coffee, and his mood is simply over the moon when he finds that when he enters the kitchen there is no prevailing feeling of eyes boring into the back of his skull. Grumbling halfheartedly while going about the serious business of preparing coffee, Karkat has soon prepared a breakfast of champions; one that is, lamentably, a breakfast composed solely of black coffee. 

He feels a sense of déjà vu when entering the living room with the two mugs, but ignores that feeling entirely when he realizes that the bowls of soup have steam rising from them again. It’s like a Christmas miracle, only it’s not even Christmastime yet. Meanwhile, the woman is sitting on the couch, skirt unruffled somehow despite having probably worn it for over eight hours, and her eyes flick to him when he walks in. Obviously not finding anything of interest in the space he is occupying, her gaze returns to the soup. Karkat opens his mouth without thinking, and speaks.

“Did you do that?” He queries, feeling pretty impressed but not quite processing the obvious impossibility of it all. When the lady nods solemnly, Karkat recalls that he is carrying two cups of equally scalding coffee in each hand, and moves quickly to place the both of them on the coffee table before his knuckles receive second degree burns. After doing this, he eagerly scoops up a bowl of soup into his hands, and just as he is just about to bring the first spoonful of soup to his mouth, he notices that the only other person in the room hasn’t made any move for her own bowl of soup, or even the blessed coffee.

“Uh,” Karkat says intelligently, placing his spoon back into its bowl. “That one’s yours.” He is sure to point at the remaining bowl on the table while saying this, attempting to be as straightforward as possible.  
Needless to say, it doesn’t hit home. All she does is look at him, and Karkat decides that he’s not going to tolerate awkward staring anymore. Not in his house.

“You. Yes, you. Eat the soup.” He orders, mimicking eating with his own bowl and silverware to demonstrate. Then, he thinks “to Hell with it”, and actually does eat some of his broth, because he is unable to fend off his hunger any longer. His stomach feels pleasant and warm when the soup settles in it. With evident vigor, Karkat digs in.

When he looks back over at her, she’s having some kind of existential crisis, by the look of it. She extends her arm to grab the bowl, grasps at air, pauses, and seems to be confused with everything. There is a definite crease working its way across her forehead, too. Finally, probably after feeling Karkat’s attention focused on her, she meekly argues, “But I do not require sustenance.”

“You what?” Karkat garbles around more soup.

“I do not need to ingest this soup,” Upon catching sight of Karkat’s steadily growing frown, she makes an effort to explain herself, which is more of a desperate stab in the dark than anything. “I would much rather leave it for your own consumption.” Karkat’s scowl only deepens, and she stops speaking. Thank God, Karkat thought she might start to explain the digestion process, or something just as uncomfortable. She just has that kind of naturally instructive voice, is all.

“Oookay,” Karkat draws out, unsure of how to reply to that but willing to compromise. “Just have some coffee, then, if you’re not hungry.” He tries to reason with her, feeling sort of stupid being the only one eating when there’s another person present.

She still looks a little tense, but takes up the coffee mug, in the area where it is most blistering hot without even flinching, and brings it to her lips. Tentatively, she sips from the cup, and her elegant nose wrinkles at the bitter taste. “I do not like coffee.” She tells Karkat, in a tone that leaves no room for further argument. She carefully places the mug back on the table, and her upper lip curls at it.

Karkat accepts this, and is thankful that he will be able to enjoy two mugs of coffee without having to leave the comfort of the couch. When the silence between them begins to approach dangerously oppressive levels, Karkat unenthusiastically says, “So, I’m Karkat, by the way,” He’s being stared at, now. Again. “What’s… your name?”

“I am Kanaya.”

“Hah, cool,” Karkat laughs bitterly. “Nice to know we both have remarkably weird names. Our parents must’ve hated us.”

Kanaya directs a disapproving Look at him. Look with a capital ‘L’ because of its force. “My Father loves all of us, Karkat. He would never be so purposefully cruel.”

“Yeah, and your dad lets you waltz around in the nude during a blizzard. Parent of the year, right there. Where’s he at, anyway?”

“In Heaven.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Karkat utters, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry.” Really, he is the number one asshole, here. It is him.

“…Don’t be? I know that He is smiling down upon us, there is no cause for concern.” It’s apparent that she’s scrambling for a way to comfort him, and Karkat is in no way reassured. God, he’s such a terrible person. Why did he even say that?

Karkat grimaces into his bowl of lukewarm soup. Then, he seems to have a revelation of some sort, and turns his body so that he can completely face Kanaya. “Wait. How’d you reheat this soup without a microwave?”

“A micro-what?”

“A microwave,” He explains patiently. “You know, shove shit in, press a few buttons, wait a few minutes, and bam! You’ve got yourself a warm meal.”

“That does not sound particularly appetizing, Karkat. Do all humans consume…?” 

“Yeah, no,” He interrupts her, before remembering his previous question. “So, how’d you do it?”

She appears unsure, but answers his question anyway. “Oh. I warmed it.”

“What, like, with your body heat?” A disgusted look passes over his face, and Karkat glances with newfound apprehension at the bowl of soup sitting in his lap.

“No. With my Grace.”

“With your grace.” Karkat repeats, mystified.

Kanaya pauses, considers, and then confirms this with a nod. “Yes.”

“Alrighty then,” Karkat says, picking up his spoon and resuming eating. At least she didn’t use body heat. “So you’re like… a ballerina who dabbles in wizardry, or something.”

Kanaya’s left eyebrow raises a fraction. “…I’m afraid that I do not understand. I am not a ballerina, nor am I proficient in wizardry.”

“Then what are you?” Swallowing around a mouthful of soup, Karkat persists in his amateur interrogation.

“I am Kanaya.” Her eyebrow climbs a tiny bit higher, and Karkat decides that this one is a sassy little shit.

“No, no, no, _no_ ,” He gripes. “That’s who you are. What are you?”

“Ah. Your wording is difficult to follow. I am an Angel of the Lord.”

Spitting out his soup (back into the bowl, thankfully, and not across the room), Karkat turns to gawk at Kanaya, disbelief in every word that leaves his mouth. “No fucking way! That’s fucking _crazy_ , you must be crazy.”

“I can assure you that I am most certainly not insane,” Kanaya pouts at him, somehow conveying her displeasure at his assertion with minimal facial expression. “Although, your own state of mind is questionable. You are still recovering from the events of the day before, yes?”

Wow. This is so freaking weird, it’s like she’s flipped the conversation on its tail end and has re-directed all of the scrutiny at him. Karkat glowers at her, hating how he can’t get mad because it’s actually a pretty nice question, and not many people are decent enough to ask after his health. “Uh, _d’oh_. Of course I am!”

Nodding to herself, she declares, “Very well then. We will speak of this no more until you are feeling better,” Before Karkat can argue, she stands, and walks over to examine his T.V. Prodding at it with one finger and drawing a line along its contoured surface, she inquires, “What is this strange cube?”

Karkat fussily bunches his hands inside of his pockets, but responds docilely with, “It’s a T.V.”

“And what is its purpose?” Her head tilts to the side as she perplexedly regards it.

Karkat sees an overwhelming opportunity, and takes it. Reaching for the remote, he asks, “You ever watch _Fresh Prince_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** “Heaven of Heavens” terminology taken from the book “Unexplained Mysteries of Heaven and Earth” by Ron Phillips. According to this book, there is a first heaven, which is our atmosphere. Then, a secondary heaven, which consists of the moon and planets. And then, there is a third heaven, the “heaven of heavens”, where the angels live. Or something like that.
> 
> Also, I apologize for my complete failure to grasp present or past tense. Gosh, it's bad, man.


	2. Heaven Help Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drabble below the cute little song lyrics was written by Kyky25! It's a very lovely drabble, I think.
> 
> Oh, wow, chapters are probably only going to be 5,000 words tops after this. I'm getting a little over-excited about this, so.
> 
> Anyways, if you have just read what's here so far all the way through, thank you! Updates are still gonna be really wonky, beware.

“Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee

All through the night

Guardian angels God will send thee

All through the night

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

Hill and dale in slumber sleeping

I my loving vigil keeping

All through the night.”

☼☼☼

As the stars look down on the Earth they see all. Their glimmering light shines on cities and suburbs alike, an ever-present vigil on the world.

Here they see a child being tucked into bed by loving parents, here a young couple ignoring curfews and watching the stars back.

And here they see a ramshackle house, wooden railing on the porch splintering and gutters clogged; nearby trees blocking the windows and no garden to speak of but weeds. They watched this house carefully, for despite it's rag-tag appearance, something was happening inside it. Or something was _going_ to happen.

Soon, very soon.

☼☼☼

  
_The bedroom is dim, the only meager light wafting in through the window from the moon and stars above. A small child is lying spread-eagled across the blue comforter of his bed, dotted with shooting stars and grey-faced aliens with big, black eyes. He shifts in his sleep, pawing loosely at his lavender-scented sheets with increasing fervor, trying to elude terrors that the human eye alone cannot detect. If he were to try and put pen to paper, however, there would be entire worlds expressed through the power of the written word alone._

_A much younger Karkat Vantas is dreaming. Unbeknownst to him, this particular kind of dream shall plague him for the rest of his life. At this current moment, however, he is not aware of this unfortunate piece of information, and so he descends, unaware, further into the depths of his subconscious._

__

_It is only his imagination. The boy’s shoes leave rough scuff marks on the floor as he walks, and Karkat does not recognize the place that he is visualizing. It is a surprisingly vivid dream. Pale lighting comes from some unknown source, and bright shafts of it glare into his vision at intervals. The lights flicker once, and Karkat is momentarily unsettled by it. His dream self squints at barren walls and floors, but there is no sound but his own footsteps forlornly echoing through this passage. He continues on._

_Suddenly, his feet carry him through the threshold of yet another bleak place. Only, there are various boxes and packages stacked one on top of the other lining its walls, loosely taped together and cardboard in make. Karkat does not know what these boxes may contain, but assumes that it must be irrelevant. He moves towards the nearest package, lifts it into his arms, and carries it to the side of the room opposite to where it had once rested. A mindless rhythm begins._

_He repeats this process with several other packages before the lights flicker yet again, casting longer shadows along the walls when they once again assume their weak glow. Karkat’s countenance scrunches up into a frown in his sleep, but he does not give any other sign of his unease._

_It is only when he turns around that he sees what is causing the lights to flicker so._

☼☼☼

It is dark in Karkat’s home, the sun having disappeared over the horizon, and the only source of illumination is gliding out from the muted television in sharp precision. With each ever-changing and moving image on the screen, the room shifts in and out of darkness.

Kanaya is settled back on the couch, her back straightened and expression lacking in tiredness. While her vessel appears at ease, her mind is sorting through, and oftentimes eliminating, various topics that she could ask Karkat to assist her with on the morrow. 

Occasionally her gaze moves to the ceiling, and her consciousness drifts to the twinkling stars beyond, which before used to sing glory to the Heavens above. The night sky is silent, now, and there is no shining choir to be heard. If she were to take flight into this vacant blackness, she would surely be overcome with grief. The angel feels a dense pang of gloom steal through her being, and anxiously returns her attention to the resting human who has nestled his head against her leg.

Karkat had fallen asleep nearly an hour ago, and he does not stir as she carefully brushes through his tangled hair with her fingers, deftly avoiding any rough snags she comes across. She searches his calm face for any signs of unhappiness, and finds none. Sighing, she returns her attention to listening for the voices of her fellows. 

Even a murmur, barely there, would subdue her worry. Still, Kanaya hears not a sound all throughout the rest of the night, save for Karkat’s steady breathing.

☼☼☼

Karkat comes into work at twelve in the afternoon, just before his shift begins.

He’s never been this punctual before, and his freaky coworker with the eye patch looks up in surprise when he stumbles in, busy putting up a few boxes of Nabisco graham crackers before she turns in for the day. She raises an eyebrow and pops her bubblegum loudly to let him know she’s seen him show up on time for once. Nodding cautiously in her direction, Karkat dons the ridiculously cheerful nametag his manager insists that they all wear. All of the employees detest this nametag system as well, but say nothing of it. Anyways, he’s here way too early. He supposes that it’s all because of the fucking _nightmare_ that’s taking place in his home, right this very minute.

He had gone into his recordings and selected the earliest episode of Fresh Prince that he has. After fast-forwarding through all of the unnecessary commercials also jammed into that same recording, he was able to kick back and share the magical experience with another living creature. Although, of course, it wasn’t nearly as awesome an experience as he’d hoped it would be. 

For one thing, Kanaya had questioned _everything_ about the show. Even the familiar theme song that Karkat sometimes hums in the shower. “Why would his mother send him away to an unfamiliar place rather than simply ordering him not to get up to any more trouble? Would it not be more dangerous for him to be unexpectedly dropped in a place that he does not yet know, than to be educated on how to properly behave? No matter how wealthy this relative may be, it still seems terribly regressive, to me.” 

Oh, he’d tried to explain it to her. “It’s a classic,” He had said. “You can’t question classics!”

 

She’d scoffed at that. 

And now, here he is. Too early to work in the afternoon, and beginning to wonder if he should have stuck around a while to teach Kanaya how to use the house phone in case she blew something up by accident with her mystical angel powers, or whatever she’d called it. Grace, that was it. He figured it was only a matter of time until she became bored with the television, which he’d programmed to play all 148 episodes of _The Fresh Prince_ before leaving, and decided to try the oven on for size. Karkat shudders at the mere thought of what hazardous conditions might await him when he returns home.

He’s setting up his work station when his fellow wage earner, ‘Vriska’ he gathers from her name tag, saunters over and leans against the counter he’s standing behind. “Hiiiiiiii, Karkat,” She drawls, placing both of her leathery elbows on his countertop. Karkat squints distrustfully at her. “A little birdy told me that you’ve found yourself a lady friend! Heard she’s a real angel, that one.” The grin that spreads across her face is weirdly sharp, but Karkat doesn’t stop to mull over that too much. In fact, it pretty much flies right over his head. What he does try to wrap his head around, however, is how in the Hell Vriska found out that he’d met some chick out in a blizzard.

“Yeah?” Karkat tries, puzzled beyond belief.

Vriska winks the one eye that isn’t covered with a patch at him. “Mhmm.” She says, voice nauseatingly honeyed. She wants something, he can tell. Probably for him to take over at this same time every day so she can sally her ass out the door earlier. Manipulative bitch. Just as Karkat is about to ask something else, Vriska glances towards the dairy aisle, scowling. He turns his head and sees their manager approaching just as Vriska pushes herself up off the counter, because their employer is picky when it comes to just about everything, and that includes the pristine countertops. 

“Well, see you around, Karkat!” The girl who-was-supposed-to-be-in-question crows, and ollies out of there before she gets caught leaving early. He makes no move to stop her and just watches her leave, furrowed brow stuck firmly in place. 

Said furrowed brow soon dissipates into smooth, resigned acceptance when his manager tells him that he’s supposed to look bright and fresh for the customers, because it encourages them to buy more. Karkat is made to put on a pleasant grin that looks more like a pained grimace, and is directed to stack boxes out back for probably his entire shift. His back is going to be _so_ sore.

Groaning in discontentment, Karkat heads to the back.

…

.

What Karkat tries not to think too much about, is the fact that this day has started out like a dream that he has had since he was six years old. Before moving out here, it had been an every night occurrence. He had believed that it had finally vacated his subconscious, and was relieved when his rest after nightfall did not once again become an endless trek across a boiling desert of sheets, dry-eyed and weary from lack of decent sleep.

He also tries to ignore the fact that he had that very same dream the day before, while there was an angel roaming his house.

It’s safer this way.

.

In hindsight, Karkat should not have come in to work today.

☼☼☼

Kanaya does not understand T.V., nor does she much appreciate it.

Her human ally had behaved as if it were something to be lauded forever, evermore, but she cannot see the appeal. She trumps it up to the thought of other, much more fascinating aspects of life that she could instead occupy herself with. Like gardening, or bird watching. 

While the sound of actor Will Smith’s attempts at being suave for the ladies plays over in the background, Kanaya decides to search through Karkat’s belongings. Not like before, when she had only done so for the sake of organization, but now she is simply curious. Besides, since there is no hilarity to be gained from any kind of human entertainment, she resolves to muster some up from her rather unexceptional situation.

That is how she happens upon a large collection of romance novels that are crudely packed into a small shelf space that most likely does not deserve to be subjected to such criminal abuse. Kanaya does not know this bookshelf, however, and cannot provide it with any comforting words that would truly help it out of this situation, or at least to accept it. Also, slabs of wood are not sentient and never will be, and Kanaya will not reduce herself to having a one-sided conversation with a piece of inexpressive furniture, no matter the state of its dreadful existence. 

“That would be simply preposterous.” Kanaya wisely tells the bookshelf as she picks through its contents.

Selecting a book from the shelf at random, she examines its flashy cover, and her lips curl downwards. A woman is leaning against a shadowy lamppost in an incredibly provocative position, the white sleeve of her long, flowing dress barely covering her exposed shoulder. In fact, it appears that a good portion of the loose sleeve is making a break for it and is grasping for freedom at the woman’s curved elbow. While Kanaya wishes the best for this poor sleeve, she also dearly hopes that it will not succeed in its endeavors, as the woman appears to be at odds with a man nearby, who is dressed all in black. Kanaya decides that the woman needs all of the armor she can use, if the dress is indeed purely for the sake of creating a contrast between the two. 

She chances a look at the title of the book, and is momentarily confused. “Forbidden Love”, it reads, in scripted handwriting that curves in somewhat unnecessary places. Kanaya finds this extremely warped writing to be sort of outrageous, but chooses not to pay it too much heed. In smaller text near the bottom left corner, there is a brief message hinting at the books contents: “Will Meredith fall in love with the big bad vampire? Or will she remain on the side of the faefolk, who have been at war with the vampiric legions for thousands of years? Read and find out which side she will choose”. 

Rather than replace the book in its space upon the shelf, Kanaya sets it aflame. Then, after gazing at her work with no small amount of satisfaction, flames reflecting eerily over her features, she immediately regrets her decision, and transmutes the charred novel into a much better book. A more photogenic book, per say. 

“Salad Recipes for the Salad Lover” is inscribed across its cover, and a smiling woman is boasting a salad above her head in a reverent manner. Kanaya, in the way that only an angel can, very seriously considers the merit of this subject, too, for a short while, before giving her head a condemning shake and once again substituting it with a new work of literature. Kanaya finds that she rather approves of this one; “The Holy Bible”, the cover avows, sedately and with only a few gold-dusted characters.

Pleased, she places it between two of the other less garish books, exactly so.

☼☼☼

_His feet pound along a long corridor that seems to stretch on for ages, and his lungs feel as if they are being pricked with tiny shards of glass with each breath. Through his labored breathing, he can just barely make out the sound of piercing and deliberate footsteps that shadow his own. What feels like millions of pinpricks and needles arches up his legs, and Karkat has never before recalled having a dream so vividly painful._

_For some reason, his arms and legs appear to be working against him, and they work clumsily even in his haste to escape his pursuer. Desperately looking for a safe haven, his eyes rake the blank, unforgiving walls to all sides, and he lets out a choked gasp of panic when he is unable to see any within sight or reach. Something like a hand, only clawed, catches onto his ankle, and Karkat falls forward, an excruciatingly bright red bursting in his vision when his jaw crunches into the floor. The distinct taste of iron floods his mouth, and Karkat gargles out a cry of misery._

_Fingers like talons clasp under his chin, and his head is forcibly tilted to an exceedingly painful angle. A girl he does not recognize, with muddled features and soulless black eyes, grins, mercilessly, down into his face._

_“Where’s that angel of yours now, prophet?” She crows, voice like a dozen spiders crawling along his spine._

☼☼☼

Karkat’s grandmother had been a wise old bird. She’d known things, seemingly before they ever even occurred, and Karkat’s mother always complained of her continued presence in their home right up until some mishap occurred. It was something that followed her everywhere, even when they went out of town. And she would always warn them about it.

Not a soul had ever believed her, save for Karkat.

Her house had been a comfortable, homely little hut. With a thatched roof and sparse clear glass planes in any of its windows, it was rather nice and well-ventilated, except for when it rained. Then, it would be dreary, damp, and, as his grandmother said often, evil storm spirits would rap upon the glass with their many spindled fingers and make mischief in the barnyard.

Dyed string hung from the ceiling, sporting bits of minerals, bells, feathers, and herbs that chimed musically whenever a gentle breeze blew through the house. There was a certain musty smell that was suspended in the air, too, which reminded Karkat of old schoolbooks and the brown hens wandering about outside the back door. The place was small, but it was more than enough space for his grandmother, hobbled and shrunken as she was. 

Some said she was accursed, spreading bad omens wherever she went. None of this talk particularly bothered Karkat, he adored his grandmother. But, he especially loved her stories. They were always expertly detailed, and she and the rest of their family were always the main characters. Sometimes, they would consist of something as simple as a trip to the grocery store, where all of the macaroni and cheese might have run out. Other times, they would mention a deflated tire, a broken plate shattered upon the tile of the kitchen floor in the evening, or even a small cut to Karkat’s finger after reaching into his jarred collection of rocks and glass that he would find on the side of the highway. Most of her predictions were very short term.

One night, she had tucked Karkat into bed and explained to him that, one day, he would be very significant, in the far off future. She had gravely told him that he would be the one to help in putting the sky back together again, if it ever were to crash to the Earth and break. The way she had described the heavens above was as if they were a vast, clear dinner plate, speckled with clouds and rain.

Karkat had very much liked this story, but had admitted to his grandmother that it didn’t seem a very likely story. He was much too small to put together the entire sky, on his own at least. Why, he would need help from every person in the world to accomplish such a feat! His grandmother had only nodded solemnly at him, her wrinkled face divulging no more secrets, and she had kissed his forehead and bid him a good night’s rest.

She had passed away in her sleep that night, a knowing smile spread on her lips.

☼☼☼

Sighing heavily, Karkat picks up another box from the dusty floor, and he swears when his hand is caught roughly on its surprisingly jagged bottom edge. After shoving the stupid thing down on top of another pile of its own kind, he examines the damage to his palm, and is met with a thin white line of upturned skin that has been peeled back a small ways, free to flap in the wind, or whatever. Naturally, Karkat picks at it, and glares when his intruding causes a minuscule droplet of blood to peek through.

The back room is pretty dull. Then again, the entire gas station is lacking in colorful interest, and it isn’t really a special incident that Karkat should be taking up issue with. So, he doesn’t. What he does have a bone to pick with, however, is the fact that he has been in here for at least two hours, and he isn’t even half of the way done yet. Stacking boxes is hard work, for some unknown reason, besides the obvious fact that those boxes could be heavy or, _hey_ , potentially pierce the skin of some poor, unsuspecting gas station worker.

He would bring this up with his manager, or maybe some kind of labor union, but he would probably just be told to man up. Or, they might search into his medical records to see if he really did get those shots back in the seventh grade that he was supposed to have had to attend public school, and Karkat’s fairly certain that nobody wants that. Especially him. Needles are terrifying.

The lights flicker once, and Karkat is drawn out of his thoughts momentarily. Squinting up at the ceiling, he attempts to find out exactly which light is the source of the problem, intending to complain to his manager about it later on, when he’s finished with his task here. When no good comes of that, Karkat unexpectedly shivers and draws up his shirt collar to cover the hairs that are rising on the back of his neck. He figures that there must be a draft coming through the ceiling.

Anyways, Karkat is fairly certain that not a soul would care enough to give a fuck about the state of his epidermis, and so he rubs the offending hand on the fabric of his sweat pants before considering resuming his work. He thinks about it for a moment, but he’s really itching to check up on Kanaya, and decides that he should probably dial the house phone to make sure she’s alright. Distractedly, he digs around in his pocket for his old, heavily-battered mobile phone.

Hopefully nothing too catastrophic has happened while he has been away.

☼☼☼

A decently-sized patch of the carpet is on fire. It had started on the edge of the rug, for mysterious reasons that Kanaya would never disclose, ever, and is winding its way through the carpet. Most of the threads are singed beyond repair by human means, and it will probably need to be replaced, for a burned carpet is not aesthetically pleasing to the eye.

Frantically, Kanaya attempts to beat the flames into submission with a tasteless novel, but to no avail. She only succeeds in setting yet another object on fire. Thinking using only desperate and sparse pinches of reason, she had seized the nearest available object and had used it to bat at the rising blaze. Now, she dearly regrets that decision to do so.

Frustrated and feeling rather sorry for herself, Kanaya is just about ready to start beating at the fire with the palms of her hands when a loud, reverberating ringing begins. She ceases in her demonstrations immediately, and turns sharply towards the source of the annoyingly repetitive tone. An organic, gray shape sets easily upon the table at the far wall, and Kanaya abandons the current calamity to investigate.

Switching intermittently between staring at the ringing object and the blaze, she hears the resounding signal twice more before a scratchy but familiar voice is cast out into the room after a short stirring noise.  
“KANAYA,” The voice shouts, loud enough to be unfailingly heard over the crackling of the miniature bonfire behind her. Unsure of the voice’s source, Kanaya starts, alarmed. “THIS IS KARKAT, AND I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DO NOT ANSWER THE PHONE, I WILL MARCH MYSELF RIGHT ON BACK THERE _THIS INSTANT_.”

“Karkat?” She asks aloud, but the he does not answer to her miserable prompt. Instead, he continues to speak, as if he had not heard.

“LOOK, FUCK, I DON’T KNOW IF YOU ANGELS EVEN KNOW HOW TO OPERATE PHONES, SO I GUESS I’M GOING TO HAVE TO TALK YOU THROUGH IT, I GUESS. IT’S REAL SIMPLE, SO LISTEN AND DO EXACTLY WHAT I SAY,” Nervously glancing about, Kanaya’s eyes settle on the fire that is blackening about one-ninth of Karkat’s living room. She hopes he will not be able to know about this, even with his omniscient capabilities. “ALRIGHT, I’M GOING TO HANG UP, BUT I’LL CALL BACK. WHEN I CALL BACK, PICK THE PHONE UP FROM THE RECIEVER, AND PRESS TALK.” 

Kanaya squints suspiciously at the phone, unsure of if she can carry this task out correctly. A damning combination of unfamiliar words and a lack of sureness surge inside her mind. “ALRIGHT. BYE.” There is an abysmal clatter and nothing more.

The angel knows that she must have this fire put out before Karkat begins to use his all-seeing abilities towards his home again. She sprints to the kitchen, snatches up the plastic container of what is left of Karkat’s coffee from the counter, and rushes back into the partially-burning room. 

With one fell swoop, she dumps all of the pots contents over the inferno, and that seems to dull it down a small amount. However, the fire is persisting in advancing towards the television, which is still playing Karkat’s beloved _The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_ show. Also, the phone has begun ringing again. Kanaya must make haste. 

Throwing open the door to Karkat’s house, and nearly knocking it off of its hinges in the process, she scoops up a good amount of snow from the ground into the coffee pot, and uses the sludgy ice to put out the rest of the fire. Briefly stopping to make sure the entire blaze is gone, Kanaya carefully steps around the more blackened areas to reach the telephone. 

After ascertaining where the “Talk” option is and deftly plucking the phone from its stand, Kanaya brings it up to her face.

“KANAYA?” Karkat’s voice asks, bad-temperedly. 

While watching the smoke rise to curl under the ceiling, Kanaya coolly answers, “Hello, Karkat. Your home is in very respectable hands, do not worry. Nothing has caught fire, and the carpet is well.”

“UH, YEAH, I’LL DEFINITELY BELIEVE THAT,” Her human friend rejoins, sounding relieved. “I WAS JUST CALLING TO CHECK UP, WORK’S GONNA BE LATE TODAY. ARE YOU SURE EVERYTHING’S FINE? BECAUSE I--” The line abruptly goes quiet. Kanaya stares disconcertedly at the phone in her hand, having expected Karkat to say something more.

While she is a little put out by Karkat's sudden silence, Kanaya decides to blame it all upon the general incomprehensible behavior that humans are commonly known to exhibit. Soon, her attention slides towards and focuses on an object that she had knocked over in her hurriedness to put out the fire. As she stoops down so that she may return it to its rightful place on the coffee table, a sudden jolt of hurt and misery streaks through her in a confusing surge of inflamed and bruised purple. Kanaya goes still, unsure of the meaning behind this unexpected impression.

It is then that she receives her first beseeching prayer.

☼☼☼

_He’s helpless, like a shiny black beetle caught on its back, and the more he struggles the more the shadowy things scrabble at his shoulders to try and keep him still. He knows that there will be no escaping this._

_And yet. A piece of advice that his grandmother had given him for whenever trying times came about rings in his ears, “Just pray, Karkat, and a little angel will smooth all of your troubles away.”_

_The angel that arrives is not little at all._

☼☼☼

The phone in his hand unexpectedly goes haywire, and a steady stream of static nonsense spews out. Karkat yanks it away from his ear, wincing and smacks the plastic casing against his hand several times to try and get an intelligible word to come through. This action only results in the creation of a heavy, weighted silence as the phone finally goes dead. There is still a distant ringing sound in his ears, as if he had been underwater for some time and has only just resurfaced.

“Shitty phone,” Karkat growls to himself in an attempt to calm his jittery nerves. “This is what comes of living in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

He moodily shoves his cell phone back into the pocket of his hoodie-jacket, and turns back towards the entrance of the storage room on an unintended whim. To his surprise, he finds himself nose-to-nose with another body when he completes the turn. Giving an alarmed shout, Karkat falls backwards and lands ass-first on the freezing concrete floor.

“What the Hell?” He shrieks shrilly, chest rising in short breaths as he looks up at the person who had nearly-traumatized him so. With a small feeling of relief that spreads from a note of recognition, Karkat identifies the person now towering over him as his coworker, Vriska. Vriska, who should have left hours ago.

She’s sort of skulking over him, her face partially obscured by the winding shadows cast by her hair. Karkat feels like a small forest animal that is being watched by a much larger forest animal, and the latter happens to be equipped with many more teeth and a carnivorous appetite. He attributes this comparison to his smaller stature, as well as Vriska’s natural tendency to unsettle anyone within a sixteen-seventeen yard radius.

Karkat, throwing caution to the wind, begins to demand an explanation for her fooling around. 

Despite his trembling hands and shaken appearance, he still managers to sound authoritative when he speaks. “What the Hell,” He repeats his statement from earlier, snappishly, to express how simultaneously frustrated and confused he is. “Vriska? I thought you left like, what, two hours ago?”

There is a blur of movement behind him, and Karkat uncomfortably angles his head to see the store’s manager sidling towards them from a different direction. Slowly, Karkat begins to realize that something’s up. He looks back towards Vriska, apprehension mounting in his brain, and notices that there is a menacing grin splitting her face. The lights flicker once, enough for the room to be briefly swathed in darkness for a few fleeting seconds.

As the both of them make to seize his arms in the dark, Karkat clumsily reaches for the pocket knife that he had been using to slice the tape of the boxes open, skims it open against his thumb, and dives away from the pair. The lights are back on, Karkat’s heart is beating out an unsteady rhythm against his rib cage, and he can see that the lesser blade in his grip is blunt and a little rusted. As he gains his footing barely three yards away, stumbling all the while, he braces the pocket knife in front of himself and tries to make it clear that he’s not a force to be messed with. The effect is lost, his hands are shaking so much, and Vriska jeers at him. 

“Oh, come oooooooon, Karkat,” She says, still grinning, which would be really annoying if it weren’t also just as terrifying. “All you’ve gotta do is come with us, we won’t hurt you. Honest!”

☼☼☼

_Kanaya, oh my fucking fuck, please help me—_

☼☼☼

Kanaya is furious. She is made up of a white-hot, unstoppable, boiling rage that cannot be quelled. She is upset with Karkat, his insistence on returning to his other duties despite the danger, and his mortal stupidity. She is angry with whoever would dare seek to harm him, as well, and desperately wishes to purge them from existence. But, most of all, Kanaya is afraid.

Her wingspan is large, not as far-reaching as some of her brethren, some of which who could encompass the entire Earth with their wings if they so wished to, but her reach is impressive nonetheless. The wings that she has long used to achieve swift flight, which glow and burn with the light of a churning star, take up much of the area that she finds Karkat and his assailants in. Karkat is lying prone upon the floor, but he is still very much alive.

She glares at the two who stand over him, all warrior and wanting in mercy, and does not recognize the wrongdoers for what they are. Her eyes narrow. She has never, in all her long life, seen anything quite like them, beings filled with so much ill will and blackness that it spills out between deep gashes in their tattered souls. Nothing more than humans, ripped apart, strewn back together again, and made to be monsters.

The radiant angel severely regards them, and they do the same toward her, eyes unblinking and murky black, before she crashes down upon them in a tidal wave of righteous fury. Kanaya shouts, a high-pitched scream of an indecipherable and ancient invocation, and the demented beings burn from the inside out, shrieking all the while as their innards spontaneously combust. In a torrent of black smoke and flame, the two fall to the ground, lifeless and emptied of pollution. 

A trembling Karkat stands and stares dazedly down at the smoldering bodies for a moment, trying to comprehend his near death experience in its entirety. The fiends are still smoking from their facial orifices, mouths gaping and eyes molten, and lay unmoving. Slowly, Karkat turns his head to begin eyeing her distrustfully, even if there is some amount of thankfulness in his heart, and Kanaya stares back with a placid expression. Finally, Karkat speaks.

“Holy shit,” He says, and looks between her and the husks that are all that remain of his oppressors. “That was… fucking insane.”

“Karkat,” Kanaya says primly, now examining her nails, which have a sort of soft glow to them that wasn’t there an hour beforehand. “There is no such thing as a “holy shit”, and I believe that you should adopt a new slogan. Perhaps “wow” or any other less vulgar exclamation of surprise will do.”

Karkat gapes at her, and appears to be trying to form an acceptable string of words to combat her own, while opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish stranded on the land and gasping for air. But, Kanaya is in no mood for banter, and so she intercepts and waters down his attempt with a sigh.

“In good conscience, Karkat, I cannot let you carry on with that word in your vocabulary. It is absurd.”

☼☼☼

Looking down, there is nothing to be found of importance on the physical plane that humanity inhabits.

Scores of condensed rainwater and wisps of wavering air curl in the upper reaches of the Earth’s atmosphere, occasionally spilling to the ground to nurture the soil with a fresh draught, like spirits eagerly received by a parched man. Crevices in the dirt, whose yawning mouths are turned ever skyward, readily collect any water that may trickle onto their cracked tongues.

From these life-giving droplets, flowering plants of all kinds turn their leaves and faces towards the boiling and damning sun, reverent of its majesty for the rest of their short existence, which depends upon its rays. At the same time, animals great and small tramp over them with hooves or claws, devour the plants and each other, and continue on with the divine plan set ahead of them. Giants, covered in bark, moss, and vines, provide shelter to these beasts, and cool the land below their massive boughs, and in return receive nourishment from the decomposed bodies of the dearly departed. Only birds and the occasional outlier may enjoy the shade of their uppermost leaves.

The deep blue oceans give to this process, too, with more than enough water to spare, and a wide variety of fish swim carelessly within its depths. Those who live within formations of coral and in shallower waters are vibrantly painted, darting between stalks of seaweed and crawling along their sandy beds. In the open ocean, which is often showered with rain and beaten across by blue brows never once broken by white, creatures larger than even the mightiest beast trailing across the dry land dwell and prosper. Further still, into the abysmal ocean, where even the light of the heavens does not seem to penetrate, twisted sea life, suited perfectly for the murky environment down below, thrives. Their occasional bioluminescence provides more than enough light for them to see by, although most are blind and exist only to mindlessly consume.

Below the ocean, streaked with tears between reality and a place entirely different in its foulness, is a domain that is blacker than even the ocean’s darkest abyss. No pure human soul should ever be placed here, and it is only those who have succumbed to the wiles of the Devil that endure the agony it emanates. It is pure foolishness to attempt to try and comprehend this realm in all its wickedness, strewn with blackened souls as it is, and so most do not. Not even an angel in all its heavenly glory, hefting a golden shield complemented by a blade and serving a just cause, would dare attempt it.

On the surface, many have tried to do so. Etchings in ink, wood, script, and paint have all failed, ultimately, and are never quite like the real thing. This is to be expected, as not many have been there and returned only to have been particularly motivated to create an artistic representation of it. That would be simply ridiculous. Why go to all of that trouble to create a masterpiece that would only be received with screams and the melting of eyes in their sockets? No one would be so absurd. 

Despite humanity’s inability to craft an exact replica of the Inferno, or even a diorama like they make schoolchildren glue together with Popsicle sticks and cotton balls, most get the general idea. This is, fortunately for them, pretty accurate, judging by the amount of flames and suffering depicted in oil paintings and the like. 

Therefore, it is partly understandable that, when a huge fissure of bright, meandering light rips through the incorporeal plane, those who still inhabit it immediately assume that all of Hell has broken loose. The confusion is understandable, as the shaft of light is rather fearsome to behold. One such inhabitant of the ethereal dimension even pauses in his reading to see what all the hullaballoo is about, but finds that it has already receded into nothing. Squinting suspiciously, their gaze is little by little returned to the printed text before them. Soon, they have forgotten all about the phantom light.

Luckily, Hell has not actually broken loose, and the polar opposite is true.

☼☼☼

They both spill out onto the sidewalk under the great bowl of the sky. There is a distinct smell of sulfur that trickles out behind them into the clear morning air, and it makes Karkat feel nauseated when it persists in thickening within his nostrils. A troubled Kanaya reaches out to steady him as he clutches his stomach and takes in deep, gulping breaths to try and clear his lungs.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” He finally pants, the pupils of his eyes darting to and fro. “There might be cops that’ll show up soon, you made a pretty big racket back there with the whole screeching thing. That really hurt, by the way.”

As he says this, his eyes focus on a faintly red, rust-bucket of a car not that far off. It’s entrenched in the snow, but with some effort could probably run, and the street is deserted save for a single, lonely lamp post, revealing nothing useful in broad daylight. No one seems to have heard the clamor from the gas station. Karkat figures they have about thirty minutes to an hour before a customer barges into the convenience store, finds it abandoned, and gets curious. He dearly hopes that they won’t investigate too far into the back, and maybe mind their own fucking business while they’re at it.

Without putting much lucid thought into it, Karkat decides that they need to steal a car and hightail it out of town before something else terrible happens to him. Or them, but probably mostly him. 

His life’s probably ruined, and there is really nothing he can do but run. If he stays here, he might just be accused of conducting some kind of whack, occult murder. That is primarily what drives him to this immoral act. There’s no little voice in the back of his head that’s singing about how he has always wanted to do something edgy like this. No, not at all.

Still glancing around, Karkat walks over to the car, and peers through the frosted windshield on the driver’s side. A few haphazard fast-food wrappers are skewed about the cracked leather seats, but it seems like the interior is insulated well enough to be warm.

Reaching out, Karkat tries the door handle, and immediately regrets this decision as the cold metal sears into the palm of his hand, causing him to hiss through clenched teeth and flap his arm about ridiculously to try and rid himself of the sharp sting. Meanwhile, Kanaya meanders about just over his shoulder, face dipped into a look of slight consternation at his silly human antics.

“What are you doing?” She asks, just as a sharp wind picks up and whips against Karkat’s cheeks. Her demeanor remains unflappable, and Karkat seriously envies her of that.

Shrugging his shoulders until the onslaught of Old Man Winter ceases, Karkat responds, “I’m checking out this car.”

As he says this, he begins to run through all the action films he’s seen where some buff guy steals a car to escape the law, or some other form of control. All of his cheap recollections of Hollywood cinema aren’t of much quality, and Karkat realizes that he has absolutely no idea of what he is trying to do here. That shrill voice in the back of his head says that he’s losing his rebellious spirit, and that drives him to once again man up, square his shoulders, and prepare to touch a really, really cold piece of metal.

“What,” The angel beside him persists in her investigation, mercilessly and without regard for his drooping resolve. “Is the reasoning behind this course of action? Should we not return to your home?”

Karkat wraps his hand around the handle again, and attempts to yank the car door open by sheer force of will. Force of will requires physical strength to bolster it along, however, and Karkat’s efforts are for naught. Face beet-red and scrunched up in concentration, his sneakers slip and slide against the icy pavement as he fruitlessly pulls with his all of his body weight against the handle. Finally releasing his clamped grip on the door, Karkat takes a weary step back and rubs at his eyes with the palms of his reddened hands.

Seeing Karkat’s growing frustration and useless of assault of an innocent metal cage, Kanaya carefully reaches around him and plucks the door ajar with minimal effort.

Looking at her dully, face straining against a scowl and grey contours painting the undersides of his eyes, Karkat grudgingly nods in thanks. Then, he turns to explore the inner workings of the car, and figure out how to get it to actually run. Without the key. _Geez, what is that word they used in the movies again? ‘Hot-wiring’? Yeah, that sounds familiar._

“Oh, well,” He grouses, mostly to himself, while leaning over the seat to inspect the car’s radio, wondering vaguely if that is the key to jacking a car. “If we… “borrow” this car, for a little while, it’ll get us there a lot faster. I’m not crazy about going it on foot if we don’t have to, thank you very much, when there’s stuff out there that wants to wear my stomach-lining as a vest.”

There’s silence for a while, and Karkat begins to suspect that Kanaya’s wandered off somewhere again. When leaning up from his assessment of the car’s radio to investigate, Karkat hits his head on the bottom of the steering wheel, and cusses heatedly before patting at the sore spot. He cranes his neck to look behind him from his kneeling position over the driver’s seat, and, lo! She has indeed disappeared.

Exhaling loudly in annoyance, Karkat turns back around and once again picks at the radio dial, spinning it absent-mindedly between his fingers. Of course, this course of action bears no fruit that is especially ripe for the picking, and Karkat plops his head upon the console in defeat, hair obscuring most of his vision. The leather doesn’t smell that great, and the scent of cigarette smoke hanging overhead starts to give him an aching migraine.

There’s a shuffling sound behind him, but Karkat can’t be bothered to look. If some hell beast decides to drag him off to his doom right now, he wouldn’t care. The humiliation of his current situation is far too great. 

“Karkat,” It’s Kanaya. Of course it’s only Kanaya. “While I find your antics amusing, I do believe that we should return to your home as soon as possible.”

“Hmmpghh?” Karkat questions in reply, an incoherent garble of what might pass for words trickling out. His face is still smooshed against the console. He is incorrigible, and Kanaya is sure to tell him as much.

“You are incorrigible,” She declares, exasperated but still with an air of heavenly patience that no human could ever hope to achieve. “Now, if you insist on borrowing this… “car”, then you must go about it as quickly as possible. What remains to be done, if I may offer my help?”

The word car sounds strange coming off her lips, as if it were some strain of a foreign language to her. Well, in a way, Karkat supposes it is. 

Sitting up grudgingly, Karkat assumes a look that is _most definitely not_ a pout, and turns his face towards Kanaya, crossing his arms as he does so. “I have to start the car.” He mutters, face darkening into a scowl as he glares balefully at the steering wheel.

Kanaya’s face smooths into a look of amusement, and a faint smile graces her lips. “Ah, I see. And you do not know how to do this? Your ill-tempered behavior is… excusable, then,” While stating this, she crosses her own arms to mirror Karkat. “Although, you could have simply asked for help instead of moping about like this.”

He begins wrinkling his nose at her when she basically accuses him of acting like a child, but gives in with a defeated nod when he realizes that this declaration is entirely too true. Karkat sighs. 

Bringing a hand up to rub at the growing knot between his eyes, he retorts, “Hey, you’re the one who doesn’t understand like every other word I say. And, how am I supposed to ask you for help when you keep randomly disappearing? Where the fuck did you go earlier, anyway?”

The angel’s expression moves a bit too close to a scary, hawk-like glare, but when Karkat asks where she had wandered off to her face visibly stifles any annoyance there, only to replace that look with an even more confusing face. “I was closing the door.” She says, and it seems almost like some sort of cryptic message judging by the hushed tones of her voice.

A little lost, Karkat runs through all the recent doors that he’s flung open, or that he can remember seeing Kanaya fiddle around with. None particularly stand out. “…A door? Which door?”

Guilt worms its way onto Kanaya’s face. Karkat grows suspicious. “The door to your house,” After a moment of careful thought, she continues. “I had left it open.”

When she dares to look at him, Karkat’s features have become akin to a piece of pinched cloth, as if he had just tasted something sour and most foul. Each word he utters is measured and emphasized more with each passing word, and Kanaya looks just about miserable when he has finished speaking. “Why did you have the door open in the first place, again?”

She had not mentioned how the door had come to be thrown open as it was, and while her expression is largely lacking in emotion for the most part, an even greater touch of guilty conscience creeps across it. “I opened the door, because… therewasafire and I ran out of coffee.”

His voice is cutting and more abrupt, now. “Wait, sorry, there was a _what now_? In my house?” Karkat appears to be about to blow up as a direct result of the sheer amount of rage he is trying to suppress for her sake. Kanaya does not think that this is a healthy course of action, but she honestly cannot bring herself to complain.

Timidly, she answers, “There was a small fire that came to be on the carpet. I had it contained, so there is no—“

Karkat interrupts her upon belatedly processing the fifth word of the beginnings of her ramblings. “A _what_?” He sounds incredulous, as if he cannot believe what he is hearing. This conclusion is half of the way false, because Karkat does in fact believe fully in Kanaya’s story, as this is exactly the kind of disastrous occurrence that takes place in his everyday life. He is sure that this kind of thing happens only to him and him alone.

A startling noise, strangled although it may be, escapes his lips for no apparent reason. Kanaya suspects that it may have been an insult destined to demean her, but her human acquaintance has apparently restrained himself. 

Scrabbling at his scalp for a moment and looking up and down the deserted street to distract himself, Karkat settles down into the driver’s seat more. “Get in on the other side.” He orders in Kanaya’s general direction, throwing a hand over his brow and obviously lamenting over his destroyed carpet, most likely burned beyond repair. Kanaya doesn’t have the heart to protest, and complies.

When Karkat hears the passenger door shut with a metallic clink and snow slide off the top of the car, he removes the hand from his forehead. “Okay, alright.” He reassures himself, and then turns to look Kanaya in the eye with all the disapproval he can muster from his meager human resources. This attempt is quickly abandoned, however, because Kanaya’s eyes are extraordinarily bright and filled to the brim with a strange kind of light that conveys all sorts of apologetic sayings, and Karkat does, despite popular opinion, have a soul that isn’t founded solely upon romance that he will never have for himself combined with pure, unadulterated rage.

“Okay,” Karkat repeats, raising his hands and hovering them over the steering wheel while he looks it over for any rips or tears. As if that would improve the vehicle’s decrepit state at all. “Do you have, I don’t know, some kind of divine influence over cars?”

Eyeing the ignition, he adds, as an afterthought, “… Or maybe a screwdriver?”

Kanaya appears to consider this for a moment, looking way to thoughtful for some trivial thing that Karkat personally believes she should have been able to answer to in five seconds or less, heavenly warrior or no, and then decidedly shakes her head. For a fleeting moment, Karkat had actually believed that he would be the first and only human in history to come into contact with an angelic mechanic. Alas, it is not so. 

When the human beside her sinks further into his seat of hopelessness, Kanaya suggests, very precisely, that perhaps if Karkat were to explain the process of getting the car to work, she could try to go ahead and do it. Peering at her doubtfully, Karkat indicates the ignition, already a bit curious of how Kanaya intends to start up the vehicle, and remains bunched up in the grey folds his hoodie. 

The angel turns her focus towards the ignition, and stares at it with such intensity that Karkat begins to wonder if she is trying to penetrate into the inner workings of the car with the use of her gaze alone. He merely watches her, occasionally glancing between Kanaya and her subject of scrutiny, trying to determine if anything significant has changed. It’s kind of weird, is what Karkat determines it is.

All of a sudden, there is a great rumble, and Karkat watches in disbelief as the ignition turns, seemingly of its own accord or with the use of an invisible key. The vehicle beneath him roars to life, the air conditioning still works and blows a ton of settled dust directly into his face, and the soft crooning of a country singer fills the air.

A short bark of laughter leaves Karkat’s mouth, and he turns to grin tiredly at Kanaya, who seems just as pleased. “We’re cooking with gas now, huh?” He asks rhetorically, wrenching the car into drive.

Just as her mouth opens to probably question his wording, the car pulls out into the street, and heads on a direct course towards Karkat's home, stirring up flurries of snow in it's wake.

☼☼☼

“Hark, a solemn bell is ringing

Clear through the night

Thou, my love, art heavenward winging

Home through the night

Earthly dust from off thee shaken

Soul immortal shalt thou awaken

With thy last dim journey taken

Home through the night.”


	3. The Roof Is On Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, I haven't updated this in months.

They have been stuck here for days. Aimlessly wandering the slick floors that seem to have just been mopped, picking up and inspecting items on the shelves when possible, convincing themselves that they will leave very soon, return home and prepare a nice supper.

Joy Mercer is currently searching for the rest of her family. She is frantic, for her husband and two children left her nearly a week ago in this place. She still has the presence of mind to keep her wavering strength up by eating some of the products, but most everything is rotted and inedible. They hadn't noticed it when they came in, the children bouncing around and pointing at toys and asking for money to buy fresh cookies from the bakery. She found it funny, then, how no one appeared to be manning their posts. With a gentle elbow to her husband's ribs, she had made a witty comment about the work ethic in America these days.

Now, she realizes that there was never anyone there. No one at all. They were foolish enough to step foot inside this place, and now they will be unable to leave. The sliding glass doors are sealed shut, and whenever someone new walks in an invisible barrier keeps her trapped inside.

Salty sweat and a foul stench from not being able to bathe or shower sticks to her skin, dulling her senses and making her hair wild and tangled. If anyone from the outside world were to see her now, she would appear distinctly feral. Tears and snot from weeping are dried in places where they have streamed down her face, and she feels the sickly slodge in her stomach shift with each step. If only she could find an exit, she thinks, she would be able to call the authorities and get help for everyone else trapped in here. She has already tried to communicate with them but to no avail. Even begging, pleading for them to at least acknowledge her existence in broken sobs, does not garner their attention.

But, she has been here far too long. The monotonous, shrill beep of scanners reading bar codes continues in her mind even as she tries to sleep, plaguing her dreams. She has been alive, but for _f́a҉r͏ too͜ ĺǫng̀._

She turns a corner and sees her husband. He is just as weighted down looking as she is, slouching forwards and with a pale tint to his eyes. They are no longer bright like they once were, nor affectionate and warm, but scratched over somewhat, as if he hasn't blinked in a long time or is no longer able to produce fluids. She calls out to him, starting forward and waving her arms excitedly, renewed vigor for life coursing through her veins. His head turns, far too slowly, as if someone else were trying to send the commands to his brain and doing a bad job of it. Like a puppet. Then, she sees the colorful, yellow sundress in his hands, speckled with little lace flowers. Her daughter had worn it to church the morning of when they had first arrived, and it is now tattered and coated with dried blood.

Something clicks together in her brain, a primal fear, and Joy takes a hasty step backwards. Her husband, mouth gone slack and skin a lifeless grey, lunges for her throat.

☼☼☼

Imagine for a moment that Destiny is a bird. No, Destiny is not a graceful swan with a slender white curve of a neck, poised like a ballerina's slipper; Nor is Destiny a bird of prey, all sharp talons and armed with a wicked, gleaming beak. Destiny, dear reader, is an ordinary seabird.

Scrabbling along the shores of some beach, sun beating down upon the sand with all the scrutiny of a spectacularly ticked off professor, rocks and bits of gravel from the nearby freeway getting caught between its wretched grey toes and, most of all, very, very hungry. Starving, if you will, for there is not much to be found in the way of food that is not covered in some inedible, foul-smelling substance. Life is hard for this seabird.

However, it seems that things are about to pick up; A spot of fleeting movement is caught in the bird's peripheral vision, weaving its way across the sand. The bird goes to investigate, kicking up flecks of congealed, glassy dust in its wake and all too eager for lunch. Its dirty feathers ruffle in excitement, and the orange beak opens invitingly towards the small brown dot in the sand, moving about daringly before its gaping maw.

The blip on the bird's potential meal radar is a crab. It had washed ashore in the night, away from its comfortable home dug into the sand, and appears rather upset by its current situation. Shining blue waves crash onto the shore behind it, and white foam surrounds the two adversaries, tainting the air with salt. In a snap, the crab is caught in Destiny's beak, and quickly swallowed.

From inside the bird's dark and mucus-lined gullet, a very crabby Karkat Vantas curses his luck.

☼☼☼

The drive on the way back to Karkat's home had been filled with tension. Not only was Karkat a little rusty in his practices as a driver, but there was also the looming thought that danger could be lurking around every corner. In the snow drifts, in the cabinets, even behind the thin shower curtain; evil is always sure to worm its way into even the most mundane of matters.

While driving, Karkat would frequently check his rear view mirror, cringing as he did so, prepared to see the absolute worst in hot pursuit. Luckily, all of Hell had not decided to nip at their heels, and the human would loudly exhale, and the ritual would begin anew.

As this went on, Kanaya peered out of the windows, appearing to be utterly fascinated by the droplets of water trickling down along the curve of the windshield.

From her place in the passenger seat, she seemed to exhume a feeling of familiarity that Karkat found himself totally unable to place. Feeling him watching her, Kanaya would face him, a quizzical look made up of quirked lips and low brows settled across her delicate features. It was almost as if she had forgotten he was sitting there. Karkat, in answer, had quickly turned to look back towards the road, his posture stiff with hunched shoulders, and had mumbled a noncommittal, "Shut up."

In a cascade of snowfall they had rattled up to Karkat's front steps, a jolt and spluttering engine signalling the end of their journey. The first to hop out, Karkat had bustled up to the doorway, but had stopped short just before he had dared to reach a shaking hand out to turn the knob. Looking over to Kanaya for guidance, he had asked if anything particularly inclined to eat him was skulking about inside.

Kanaya, appearing contemplative for but a short moment that utterly terrified Karkat because it seemed as if she were about to affirm his worst fears, had replied with a resolute, "No." She almost looks like she wants to add an _I don't think so_ to the end of that, but seems to stop herself just in time.

Nodding, Karkat had shoved his way in through the door, scattering slush that had been stuck to his shoes and pants out across the wooden floorboards. Then, he had begun searching for objects he would doubtlessly need for the trip as far away from that forsaken place as possible.

☼☼☼

If Destiny is a bird, then Fate is a speeding car which pulverizes Destiny with a sudden, grotesque crunch of flesh and bone. Stained crimson and looking particularly stricken by this turn of events, but none the worse for wear, a small sand crab scurries away.

☼☼☼

The items Karkat packed were most certainly not the essentials, his angelic friend noticed with some annoyance. Among them were his entire collection of romantic comedies in both novel and disc format, alphabetized by title, which was not necessary for survival in the slightest. The snow appeared untroubled by his ridiculous behavior and continued to whistle past her ears.

As Karkat struggled to shove even more of those pointless items into a light carrying bag, Kanaya looked on in mild awe, partly at Karkat's determination to conquer the impossible, but mostly at his undefeated idiocy, or, if she were inclined to be generous, stubbornness. She had already suggested that the movies and books be left behind, because surely it would much easier to depart if he would only forfeit them, but that had been met with rancorous disapproval.

And so, Kanaya, an angel who was most certainly not at all accustomed to the disorder that lowly earth-dwellers are partial to, found herself sitting amongst a pile of discarded plastic boxes and book covers. With morbid interest gleaming in her eyes, she observed a cover that read "Hell and Damnation; What's An Incubus To Do When He's Kicked Out Of Hell?", and shuddered minutely.

"Karkat," She said, meaningfully, from her throne of sleazy mass media. "Karkat, we need to have a serious discussion."

Chewing rancorously on his fingernails whilst still steering the vehicle with a hand, Karkat asked, "About what?" He was still busily trying to wrap his head around the whole "abandon your past life, accept your destiny" thing. It was strange, how the feeling of outright despair hadn't really lingered for more than five minutes. It seemed that he had fallen into the clutches of a comfortable apathy and was unwilling to face the facts. Karkat began to think of their swift departure as some kind of last minute road trip.

Kanaya, gesturing widely at the clutter surrounding them, merely looked at him. However, Karkat's eyes were stalwartly affixed to the road ahead, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he was being mesmerized by the spinning windshield wipers. Sighing but trying to be patient, the angel elaborated, "This mess. Could you not have found a better place to store them?"

"That little one was the only bag I had. Besides, this isn't so bad," Suddenly Karkat found himself on the receiving end of a spectacularly fearsome glare, and he forced himself not to roll his eyes. "Alright, fine, whatever! I'll stop at a WalMart or something, those are supposed to have everything. Is that fine with you?"

"Mm-hmm." Kanaya answered with little more than a contented hum, sliding further down in her seat to gaze out at the greying world swirling around them.

☼☼☼

They rumble up beside the doors of a supermarket after about three hours of driving. Hey, Karkat wasn't kidding when he said he was living out in the middle of nowhere, who're you trying to criticize here?

Anyways, there's cars parked everywhere, taking up most likely all of the parking spaces, and it's starting to piss Karkat off. Where the Hell is he supposed to park if there aren't any parking spaces available? Is this woman with the flower-patterned coat ever going to move out of the way? We just don't know!

Thankfully, the lady strolls out of their vehicles path just in time to avoid being struck by the side mirrors as the car barrels on past. Kanaya and the woman exchange shocked looks, similarly smeared with shock and concern, and then the woman is lost to her sight. Frowning, the angel moves in her seat to try and determine what on Earth Karkat might have thought to do something so rash, but the human appears to be stalwartly ignoring her judgement.

The vehicle comes to a derisive halt, and Kanaya exits, the passenger side door giving a sigh when it opens. She looks around, expression withdrawn.

A bed of barren earth and shale rests beside what may have once been an open field. Birds chattered all around, insects buzzed beside their ears, and the steady rumbling of cars seemed to have followed them even here. The ghosting scent of daffodils swayed through the air, and Kanaya could almost imagine the electric green that would have painted the grass blades when a branch of lightning appears in the nearing clouds, drawing ever closer and coating the land below with their sticky gloom.

As she gazes around at the splattered gray asphalt in the parking lot of WalMart, Kanaya recalls what had once been. A slam behind her, like that of a booming thunderclap, soon draws her out of her dreary thoughts, and Kanaya turns to beseech Karkat of his much more modern wisdom.

But, as soon as her lips have parted to speak, Karkat gives her a weary look, as if maybe four elephants holding a disc were resting on his shoulders, and she decides that this is a matter for later. Perhaps much later, when her human friend has rested more. Instead, she gives him a curious look, one that seems to suggest, "Well go on, then. Show me the wonders of mass consumerism and T.V. dinners."

Karkat bobs his head a little bit, puts on a brave expression that indicates that he would rather be anywhere but here in this very situation, and hunches over towards the cheerfully painted "Entrance" sign.

A wayward plastic bag gets caught in his legs on the way there and he nearly falls over in panic, but whatever.

☼☼☼

The floor was marginally sticky underfoot, and it was sort of off-putting to Karkat that everything was tinged with the stink of humidity and far too many people. Drawing his shoulders up, he continued on, only casting short, quick peeks at bright markdown stickers and alluring advertisements. It would only take ten, twenty minutes tops to locate a suitable bag, he reasoned. Only a little while. Then, he could maybe pick up a box of cereal, or chips, or something else of the like. It would go down nice and smooth as long as he didn't let Kanaya do anything ridiculous.

A good number of shoppers were around, which explained the parking lot situation fairly well. Some sent odd looks in their direction, and he was reminded of what had happened to him before this tragedy had befallen him. Or, maybe they were just freaked out by Kanaya's unblinking gaze and rigid posture.

Amusedly, Karkat looked over is shoulder at her, only to find that she had stopped following him much earlier in their trip than he had expected, and was now closely examining a box of leftover candy from Halloween or some other ridiculously profitable holiday. It was kind of funny; the angel seemed as if all the world had become unimportant to her as stared piercingly at whatever it was that had caught her interest.

He wandered over to stand beside her, and leaned over to see what had captured her attention only to discover that it wasn't half-priced candy at all, but some random pamphlets about keeping your kids off of drugs and other random stuff like that. Mouth open slightly, the human took a moment to bestow an incredulous look upon Kanaya because, seriously, what the heck? His reaction was similar to how one might react if they bought a carton of a dozen eggs, only to learn upon opening them at home that the eggs are actually made out of solid stone.

Deciding that he didn't have the time nor patience to deal with such tomfoolery, Karkat began looking around for a sign which might indicate the direction in which luggage was sold. Not finding any, he became more resigned, and shook Kanaya's shoulder to try and get her attention.

It worked, and she stared back at him a bit dazedly after being totally consumed in reading about proper child care in this day and age. Karkat became vaguely aware of a huge, gaping plot hole that simply screamed that he had not been to the bathroom or showered in about three days. Yikes. Kanaya didn't seem to come to the same realization.

"So, I'm going to go find a restroom," Karkat told her. She squinted back, which made him feel a tad unsettled. "You can hang around here until I get back. Just, don't do anything strange, alright? And don't wander off! I don't want to have to look for you for six hours or anything."

"Very well." Kanaya replied, and returned her attention to the pamphlets almost immediately. Taking that as a sign that he was free to go, Karkat scurried off towards the nearest men's room.

☼☼☼

When he came back, Karkat was pleased to find the angel right where he had left her, still thumbing through glassy pages with smiling families on their covers, and bearing a completely withdrawn expression. There was a brief moment where Karkat wondered if she even knew there was an entire store surrounding her, but he figured that was a pretty absurd conclusion to draw. There was no way she didn't know. Right?

Karkat clears his throat, a small little hiccuping sound in the back of his throat, and Kanaya turns to face him. Her green eyes widen somewhat, suddenly, and yes, she has just now noticed the surrounding area. For an angel, she sure isn't good at multitasking or keeping stock of her surroundings. Privately, Karkat hopes that this won't become a serious issue any time soon.

He waits, patiently, for he is the very epitome of patience and understanding, for her to finish taking the sight in. Meanwhile, he sets about looking for a place to buy luggage. It is what they've come here for, after all, but the snack aisle is calling his name with sweet, sweet promises of pure salty goodness, and his stomach isn't afraid to grumble in reciprocation of the sentiment. God, he could really go for a bag of potato chips right now. He doesn't even care about the luggage, really, as long as he can eventually get something in his stomach. But Kanaya would probably be upset or filled with divine disapproval if he didn't carry this one task out, so he turns to ask her if she's ready to trek forth. Only, Kanaya isn't there, and there is a metal stand holding less pamphlets than it did before where she once stood. Shit.

In a fit of frustration, tries to resist tearing his own hair out from his scalp. Why had he been so careless, letting her run off like that? She's an angel and everything and could defend herself against anything that comes her way, but Karkat fears that even if some clumsy shopper stumbled into her she might go all Smitey McSmiterson on everyone in the building. That wouldn't even be the worst of the nightmarish possibilities, he realizes; she could also get arrested for just walking out of the store with accidentally stolen goods in her hands like Karkat did with a couple shiny wristwatches when he was six years old, or she could just act strange and attract unwanted attention to herself and Karkat.

 _Yeah,_ he mourns. _This is bad news._

But where could she have gone? WalMart is huge, but he has no idea of what could have caught her interest enough to make her wander off. She might have just heard a butterfly land in New Zealand and went to investigate for reasons unknown. Honestly, it's a difficult thing to handle. In the end, Karkat decides to just wander around and hope he catches a glimpse of her down one of the aisles. Her rigid posture should be a dead giveaway, not to mention the bright red skirt that hasn't managed to get a speck of dirt on it during their travels. Resigned to his fate, Karkat begins his search.

He makes a quick pit stop at the snack aisle, plucking a few choice items off the shelves and considering purchasing some fruit snacks for Kanaya because she seems to be the kind to like colorful new-fangled food, and is just coming around into the refrigerated dairy section when he sees her.

There's a kid making a horrible racket in some middle-aged lady's shopping cart, red in the face and obviously upset by something. His mother appears to be fed up with his behavior judging by her harried appearance and bedraggled hair that strings out in every which way. She's not even paying attention, which Karkat is immensely grateful for. He sends a few short 'thank you's up to the universe, for Kanaya is staring at the child in a really intense way, an almost appalled look spread across her features.

Karkat looks between the kid and Kanaya, and doesn't like the conclusion he's going to inevitably arrive at. The child doesn't even notice that the angel is there, towering over the string cheese and microwaveable corn dogs. If he doesn't intervene quickly, this could get ugly. But how to do it without gaining the tired mother's attention?

"Kanaya," Karkat hisses, voice barely above a whisper from behind a tall shelf lined with soda. "Kanaya, get over here."

She barely spares him a glance and takes a hesitant step nearer to the child, apparently focused on some mysterious angelic goal. Karkat nearly looses his shit while trying to reign it in. God, he really hopes this kid isn't the Antichrist or something whack like that.

He waves his arms frantically at her, attracting the notice of someone further down the aisle who is inspecting a case of root beer. They send him a funny look, but Karkat is in no mood to deal with that right now. Because, right now, he's got to keep their presence on the down-low, and Kanaya going AWOL like this isn't the way to do it. At all. He can't imagine what might be going through her mind right now, and then she takes another step towards the kid.

"Don't you dare," he whisper-shrieks, wringing his hands together and digging his nails into his own skin much harder than is strictly necessary.

The kid is still screaming at the top of his lungs, hot tears streaming down his chubby cheeks and beating the sides of the cart in an effort to escape his metal prison. Kanaya takes another step forward, and then a few more, and then she's standing within arm's reach of the child, who is still absorbed in the throes of his tantrum. Karkat realizes that his efforts to draw her attention away are for naught, but still does a good job of reprimanding her in silent shouts. He has a feeling that she's hearing ever single word he says, and that only fuels the tides of his frustration.

Then, Kanaya reaches out and places a hand on the side of the kid's face. The child starts, abruptly falling silent, and then hiccups a few more times for good measure to balance the sudden lack of screaming out. Karkat takes in a shaky breath, glad that the mother hasn't turned to assess what has caused him to become quiet. The relieved sag in the parent's shoulders is clearly noticeable, and then Kanaya does a funny little smile down at the kid, who beams quite literally back with all his might, before retreating to Karkat's side.

"Now, what did you wish to tell me, Karkat?" There's a mischievous twinkle in her eye when she says it, and Karkat dispiritedly glowers back. At least that dumb screaming is done away with.

"Haha. Ha," Karkat says, being sure to enunciate the mock laughter so that it is clear he doesn't find this funny at all. "That's a real knee-slapper right there. I'll just bend over and slap away at these flimsy knees, Kanaya, you wouldn't believe."

"Phrasing," The Kanaya in question answers immediately, now facing an entirely new direction and probably trying to figure out what cottage cheese is from all the way across from the refrigerated unit.

Karkat shoots the back of her head an incredulous look.

☼☼☼

The place that Karkat calls WalMart is fascinating. Although she did not realize it at first, there is much more than useful glossy papers to be obtained from the building's numerous stores of food, drink and other such necessities. However, there are also items merely meant for pleasure-seeking, such as the small shelf of novels that she catches Karkat sneaking glances at. Kanaya especially likes the televisions, reminded of the one Karkat had so often exalted in his home. But, there is no time for reflection; they are on a hunt for containers to hold all of Karkat's meaningless baubles.

Everything is in visual chaos as they walk along the shelves; the bright lighting, the colorful packages, the distinctly unnerving music that wavers in the air. Endless rows of hundreds of different products to look over. Kanaya supposed that there must be an end to the store, as all things do, but was unsure if she should take the time to investigate. Karkat assured her, when she had expressed concerns over his aptitude for finding exactly what they need, had merely shrugged and piled in more bags of sliced vegetables into the cart.

"Where the milk is is where the store usually ends, Kanaya," He had told her, seeming unconcerned and gently humming the catchy grocery store tune under his breath. "And you've already been there."

While that is true, Kanaya distinctly recalls that there were no other rows to be found behind the milk. However, they have gone further along that same strain of refrigerated units... and more aisles somehow manifested behind it. Karkat doesn't notice the discrepancy, and if he does, he does not mention it. Meanwhile, Kanaya grows more restless, and twitches with the urge to take flight immediately and drag Karkat with her. The automatic doors at the entrance let in more people, and then slide shut with such finality that it greatly unnerves her. Most of those already inside do not seem to be especially hygienic, either, and she believes the child she had briefly met had good reason to be upset.

Kanaya begins to suspect that this isn't what she and Karkat have been looking for. This structure, while boasting a sign that proclaims that they have come to the correct place, is filled with an inner darkness that doesn't settle right. Instead, it rolls around, sapping up the energy of those trapped inside, completely unaware of their ill fates. A concert of gnashing, odious teeth, which are curved and latch onto the soul itself, feeding from the final death throes of human thought. Tendrils of dark snake out, wrapping themselves around Karkat's shoulders and holding him fast while he looks over a 75% Off sign for slightly decayed apples. One sharp intake of breath later, and Kanaya can smell the dewy rot that smothers everything and everyone in the supermarket.

She seizes Karkat by the arm and drags him away from the seeking tentacle, much to his displeasure, and drags him again towards where they had left the dairy aisle. Her footsteps are quick and sure, for the magic over this building does not affect her as it would a weaker soul. Her human friend struggles and twists his arms in her grip, but does not speak loudly in protest like he normally would have. It is as she thought: this place is a trap, sucking in wearied minds and rending them useless like a black hole. Kanaya takes a moment to hide inside the shadow of an empty aisle and try to make Karkat see reason.

"Karkat, you must understand what is happening to you," she scolds, swatting at the side of his face none too gently. "The magic here has taken root in your mind and you are not behaving as you would."

His eyes are glazed over with a green film, but for a second there is a glint of recognition inside them. Then, he resumes kicking at her shins, which Kanaya immediately puts a stop to with a kick of her own. It was unkind, and he will surely bruise, but he will thank her for it later. There is no sense in hitting someone who is impervious to physical injury until you beat yourself into a pile of pulpy flesh, Kanaya reasons, and she has no desire to see her good friend reduced to such. Placing a palm to his forehead, she wills him to regain control over his gross motor skills and thoughts.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he stops fighting her and sags a bit until he is slumped back against the shelf. Kanaya removes her hand and takes a step backwards, watching.

In a voice little more than a croak, Karkat asks, "What... was tha..?"

Looking down at him severely and a tad worriedly, Kanaya glances around to make sure they are not being observed by their captors. "We have stumbled into some kind of trap, Karkat. I do not like the looks of it, nor this despicable odor, but I think we are going to need to disarm whatever has a hold over this place somehow in order to leave."

"You're kidding me," he rolls his shoulders around, head lolling to the side. Kanaya clicks her tongue and turns his head so that he may face her again.

"No, I am not 'kidding' you. There is a very real danger here, and I fear for those who have already succumbed to it."

Karkat grunts and then with great effort rises to his feet. He blinks blearily at her still, but appears to be much better off than before when he was mindlessly attacking her. "What do we gotta do, then?" His voice is unsettled and halting, but the angel supposes that she will take help where she can get it. Even if it is from a less durable human.

Walking quickly with Karkat lagging just a few paces behind, Kanaya begins to formulate a plan. They pass by a gaggle of moon-eyed shoppers who are staring longingly at rows and rows of soggy, rotting frozen meals. The smell is almost overpowering, but the gnawing hunger in the air even more so. She makes sure to keep Karkat within her sights lest something reaches out to him again.

They come upon what she assumes to be a station for the cutting and slicing of meats, and walks past it without a backwards glance until the putrid stench reaches her.

Kanaya draws to a halt, staring hard in that general direction, Karkat trying desperately not to throw up all over her skirt. She stalks towards the thick metal doors, but the small rounded windows are covered with a misty dew and she cannot see through them. From behind, she can hear Karkat gagging into the collar of his shirt. Bracing her stance, Kanaya kicks the doors open.

Before her are piles upon piles of human remains, angry red smears covering the slick floors and dotted with droplets of a sickly yellow pallor. An arm near the end of her skirt twitches, its skin slogging off in messy chunks and grasping at empty air. The cacophonous buzzing of large, fattened flies can be heard, and the scent of decay marinates in the air. Kanaya takes a very carefully calculated step into the room, sending a glance back to Karkat who seems on the verge of collapse. From either disgust or fright, she does not know.

He is still standing outside of the doors and so she slams them shut with a flick of her wrist. She would regret it dearly if he were to come to any harm on her behalf, and so he must remain behind. In a moment, she will return to him and make sure that his mind and vitals are stable.

Kanaya takes purposeful strides out into the middle of the garage-like area. It is, like the rest of this ghastly warehouse, deceptively pristine save for the floor which is marred by the multitude of oozing corpses. She suppresses the urge to set them on fire only by a hair's breadth. It would be much more honorable than laying on the ground like this.

She inspects all four walls, searching for some sort of marking or symbol that will give her a clue as of to what has transpired here. But they are barren, the flies are biting, and the bodies are strung out across the floor because something has placed them there. Something old; powerful, most likely. There is a regretful feeling in her breast that tells her that she should never have suggested to Karkat that they come here, and one that speaks of immense sadness at the lives that have been so carelessly tossed aside before their arrival. A sudden squelching noise brings her away from these depressing thoughts. The angel looks down at her feet.

Her foot grazes over a dismembered leg with a high-heeled stiletto attached, and Kanaya blinks down at it. It was not there a moment before, she is sure of it. Nothing escapes her sight.

Something wet and warm lands at the very center of her forehead and slides down the side of her face, like a grotesque teardrop. Very slowly, Kanaya tilts her head backwards to look at what is dwelling in the rafters.

The ceiling is shrouded in an unnatural veil of darkness, and Kanaya watches in fascinated horror as another piece of human anatomy falls from above. Distinct chewing noises can be heard, circling around the entire room as an orchestra does. After arming herself with her blade, Kanaya prepares for an attack.

Sill̸y̨ a̵ng̶el͏, something with many tongues gloats, and hundreds of perfectly round eyes blink into view, stretched, writhing pupils peering down at her. For her first time since arriving on Earth, Kanaya feel strangely ill. Yo͜ú ̶a͡r̕e̴ far ̕from͘ home̶,͡ shi̢nin͡g͏ ̸one͜. D͟o not ẃorry, yo͢u ̢an̡d͟ y̕ou̵r͜ ̧m̸òrta͡l͝ ͏com͘p͞aņi͏o̷n͠ ̕w͜i͞l̵l̢ ͘ńot̡ ͜b͟e҉ ̧l̴o͏s̶t̀ fo͘r̨ mu͏ch ̷lo͘ǹgęr̵.͡ ͟A p̧r̀op̨he͠t͏,͢ h͘mm̴?͜ ͠W͜e͠ do̧ ̀s҉o̧ l͢ ̸o̢ ̴v̛ ͞e͘ ou͞r sèer̶s̷.

Kanaya draws back, nearly slipping in a pool of half-dried blood. "Lost?" she asks, trying to focus on what she plans to do. Which is... she does not know what she plans to do, actually. This does not seem well.

O̶f cơu̧rse͝ ̢yo͜u̧ ҉d͟ơ ņot ͏r̵ea͜li͝ze ̵h̕o͝w ́miser̶ab̡l̸e ̨your̸ ówn e̵xìśte͝n͞ce ͞i̵ş. ͟Th̶e pr͡oṕhe͜t i̧s at l̷e͟a̡s̷t̛ ͜ma̵r͞gi̷n͡al̷l͢y inte̵ll̴ig͠ent͘ ̵ęno͞úgh ̧t͏o͡ ̀rea͜li̸ze̡ hi̸s own s̢hortcom͞ìn̴gs, but͢ i̴t is ̨expected͢ tha̶t an̨ àng͜e͞l w̛oùl͡d̢ n̨ot͜ ̢àck͠nơwĺędg͘e h̀ơw̴ l̷a͜c̢kin̢g͡ ͡in͞ ͟i̕ndepende͘n̡c͟e͜ ͢t̡he͢y͏ a̵re u̷nti͝l̨ ͟t̴he m̀er͢e͝ ̡t͏h̕o̴u̸ght̡ óf ͢it́ ͞tears͢ ̷t͜hem ͘apa̶r̵t. Onc̡e ̀y͏ou͞ b́ec͞om͟e͘ o ͟n e̵ ͜ o̷ f ́ u҉ s ͝ you͝ wi҉ll ̛no̕t ̸h̷av̢e͞ ҉t̵o w̕o̷rr̸y̷ ͞ab́ǫut̵ ̴r̷i̢dicu̕loús͞ thi̵n̨gs such͘ as fr̛e̵e͝ ͞w̢ill.̷

She thinks, dryly, that this was an insult to her intelligence. Feeling pretty irked that whatever this thing is had just insulted her origins as well as Karkat, she finally decided on her master plan, which she will carry out with gusto.

It begins with a spark, and ends in an inferno; She sets the ceiling on fire and grabs Karkat on her way out.

☼☼☼

Back in the safety of the parking lot, Karkat has started to freak out. First, Kanaya heads out the door of what Karkat has renamed the Hell Room at a barreling run, grabbing his arm in a grip hard enough to bruise and dragging him out the front door, which actually lets them out without any trouble. Funny, that is. What isn't funny is when he's about the ask her what happened in there when he sees smoke rising out from the top of the WalMart, and that's about it.

"Oh, Kanaya," he says, eyes dry and itching slightly from the temperature change. "You didn't."

He thinks, distantly, that Kanaya is about to be the one to freak out before he even gets started. She's pacing back and forth, having some kind of internal battle and occasionally looking back up at the blaze with her mouth twisted into something like a scowl. Then, the first droves of the terrified people start to come running out to their weather-beaten cars and she visibly relaxes.

She turns to look at him, face soft and eyes bright with some hopeful expression, like she expects him to congratulate her on a job well done. Standing awkwardly out beside their car as hysterically screaming people run past is not an ideal place to deal out awards and certificates, he wants to remind her. They will probably look like the most suspicious people here, when and if the cops show up, which they surely will. _And_ he's the one with the stolen car.

They still don't have that luggage, too, but she might not be worried over that any longer.

Karkat sighs. "Nice work, Kanaya. You did real good in there, uh, setting things on fire."

The actual glowing grin she gives him is almost worth the near-death experience. _Almost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Horrorterrors vs. Angels. Scariness.


	4. You Won't Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, more characters! The plot thickens, ahaha. The first five portions are in the PAST, the sixth is halfway in the PAST and then the PRESENT, and then the rest after that is PRESENT. Except for Aziraphale's section, that one is kind of LESS PAST but sort of PRESENT.
> 
> I'm going to post a chapter that's over 5,000 words long! Don't believe me? Just watch!

When she wakes for the first time, there is sunlight streaming down into her face through a thick canopy of leaves and branches. The ground that she lies upon is soft, covered with patches of moss and a bed of tangled vegetation, and she digs her fingernails into the damp soil, breathing in the earthy smell of this new world.

She rises to her feet, stumbling a little, and looks down at her legs and feet. They are covered in dirt, small and short, and she wriggles them experimentally. Grinning, she walks towards the sound of running water, even though she doesn't know how she knows what the source of the noise is. She realizes that she doesn't know how she knows a lot of things, like names and words and feelings; right now she feels shiny and new, clean. Pure.

Her hands dip into the cool water, brushing gently over slimy pebbles and rocks, and she dashes it across her face. The droplets curve around her freckled cheeks and nose, settling at the corners of her dimpled mouth. When she looks at her swirling reflection, green eyes shine back at her, curly dark hair falling across her shoulders and sticking up in places. Her lips part into a smile, and she loves how her two front teeth stick out more than the rest. She loves herself, this body, this invigorating feeling of being alive.

A bird stirs overhead, flitting over her head and crying out as it flies through a break in the trees. On an impulse, she chases after it, feet clumsily catching on vines and tree roots as she goes. Light shines through up ahead, a wide canvas of blue spread out before her, and she can smell something in the air. Salt, sand and spray mingling on the breeze, pinching at her cheeks and making them pucker up and redden.

Finally, she breaks out from under the dappled shade, toes sliding across burning sands and fitting underneath. She can feel each and every single granule that falls between her toes. She can feel everything. The sky is open, a brilliant azure with marbled white spreading out within its corners. When she breathes, she feels as if she takes the whole world inside of her lungs, and expels it in a puff of sprinkled stardust.

There are light, flat shuffling sounds from beside her, and the girl turns to see a man approaching. He is taller than she, much taller, with the same dark hair but with a darker shade over his forest green eyes. When he smiles at her, she smiles easily back. He crouches down a few feet in front of her, steepling his fingers under his chin. His chin has hair on it, and she automatically reaches up to see if she has some as well, only to discover with some disappointment that she does not. It doesn't bother her too much, though; she likes herself already.

She sits down in the sand across from him, eyes crinkling up with the force of her buck-toothed grin. His smile widens, the curl of hair on the top of his head is funny, and she giggles a bit.

"Jaaaaade," he says, and his voice is so full of youth but so old at the same time that she is momentarily startled, nearly toppling over into the sand. His voice sounds as if it could raise or spin planets if he wanted it to. After a moment she steadies herself again, squinting at him while deep in thought. Then, recognition hits her like a ray of heavenly light.

"G'pa," Jade Harley gurgles, delighted. The sun shines that much brighter for it.

☼☼☼

In truth, Kanaya should have expected one of the Archangels to approach her for her impetuousness in breeching the sanctity of the Lord's Throne Room. It had been dangerously out of line, almost rebellious, and if the Lord had not forgiven her in all his great mercy, she might have been severely reprimanded or worse. Instead, she is confronted in private about what she has done by the Archangel Raphael. This in much worse, she thinks, that being given a proper punishment.

She had been flying over a field of blood-red poppies, though she has not seen the colour of blood yet in all her life. Her wings beat furiously against the air as she dashes and ducks through the crinkled buds, occasionally pausing to pluck some up and into her arms. Soon, she will have gathered a nice assortment to create a crown for her head with. There has always been an inherent interest in assorting colors and shapes into pleasing patterns in Kanaya's mind, and so she coos happily to herself as she works. She already has several flowers gathered, and is startled when enormous wingbeats buffet the stemmed plants and blooms around her, like a warm summer wind that tastes of pungent juniper berries.

Kanaya turns, much of the field surrounding her having been flattened by the powerful gale. And there, standing ramrod straight and appearing thunderously tall, is Raphael. A double fringe of lightning flashes behind xir, churning the sky into an almost unbearable light show before it fades back to the normal, kinder blue. The Archangel grips a staff loosely in xir hands, robes the color of a ripened pear in the summertime.

Terrified out of her wits, Kanaya's feathers ruffle up ridiculously in an innate effort to try and make herself appear larger and not to be messed with. The feathers, mostly small at her age, are covered in a light fuzz that tickles as it brushes along her arms. It is all for naught, however and Raphael merely gazes down at her placidly, not at all amused by the younger angel's plight. And why would xe be? They are all siblings, and it would ultimately be unfair for xir to terrorise a sister so easily, as most things are. But xe is not hear to talk about moral questions with this impudent fledgling; no, xe is here to talk about what Gabriel and Lucifer have so cheerfully dubbed The Incident.

"Do you know why I am here, Kanaya, Angel of Motherhood and Light?" Xir voice booms, mostly unintentionally, and Kanaya crowds her wings around herself and cowers piteously. To be fair, Raphael has never been especially good with children. Xe is about learning from grievous injury, healing the mind as well as the matter of a person, and the taste of formaldehyde in the air of a chemist's hut. And Raphael is very assured of xir role in the grand scheme of things.

Unfortunately, xe is not so assured in xir ability to speak carefully to this child. The green-robed angel sighs, then stoops down lower to the ground so that xe is crouched before the fledgling. "You are aware of your, albeit well meant, misdeeds, Kanaya?" Xe lowers xir voice, trying to be as delicate as possible.

It doesn't do much, but at least the fledgling is looking up at xir, now. Although, that bothersome trembling is still present, the Archangel notes with some annoyance. This conversation could become even more cumbersome to xir yet.

Surprisingly, the lesser celestial being answers xir question, nodding balefully all the while. "Yes," she admits, seeming to be positively miserable. Good; maybe then she will not do something so foolish again.

The Archangel sighs. Ever since xe had found out about this angel's antics, as well as her role requiring her to cultivate emotions, there had been a stiff apprehension lingering in xir mind about what this might mean, perhaps for the entirety of Heaven. Angels are not meant to... feel, at least not excessively. They have a certain capacity, certainly, but once that capacity has been cleared there is not much that can be done for them. It is addictive, almost just as it is for those who deny their roles until their inevitable fall. This angel, Kanaya, is effectively trapped.

Just as xe cannot scold her for embracing her title, xe also cannot chide her excessively for merely being curious. It is an innate quality that all younger angels have, and expresses a desirable willingness to learn, to advance in the ranks. In a way, young Kanaya is everything that Heaven needs. Heaven would not be as it is without orderly, willing cooperation on the part of all of its inhabitants. Well, perhaps most of them, as a certain shining brother of xirs is refusing to act according to their Father's will. The very idea of an Archangel rebelling is... frightening, for there would no doubt be a good deal of like-minded lackeys to follow. This matter has been kept on the hush-hush, thankfully, but Raphael is unsure of how long this game of walking on eggshells will last.

But xe is pondering this overmuch. There is a rule that must be upheld, and it has been broken. That is all there is to say on the matter. No other aspects should be considered for the sake of preventing a personal bias to develop on xir part. Otherwise, xir brothers might doubt xir ability to prevent simple acts of disobedience. And Gabriel so loves having a good laugh at xir expense.

Looking down into the child's face, however, this becomes increasingly difficult to accomplish. For one thing, Kanaya is now looking at her in a vaguely curious manner, most likely as a result of xir prolonged silence. Her wings, diminutive and still covered in a fair amount of soft fuzz from infancy, twitch idly. Raphael feels that xe would have rather been faced with blind fear again, for this is startlingly... no, xe will not call this 'cute'. This surpasses cuteness, reaching into the far more dangerous ground of absolute adorableness.

All at once, the Archangel feels uncomfortable. It would be best to abscond as soon as possible, xe reasons, shifting xir immense wings when a phantom itch dances through their folds. However, there is a job to do, and Raphael is all about doing God's work, even if it didn't come from the Big Man himself. Gathering xirself together once more, Raphael prepares to continue admonishing the other angel. That is, until Kanaya interrupts with a far, far too presumptuous question.

"Is something upsetting you?" she asks, gently, her green eyes wide and soulful. Raphael flounders for a way to respond before settling on an expression that comes naturally to xir: sternness.

Drawing xirself up, xe answers shortly. "There is nothing that can be done for it, so you would do well to remain uninvolved," there is a pause where xe gives the fledgling time to consider xir words. Raphael raises a brow at Kanaya. "I have important matters to attend to, now, and I must ensure that you understand the erring of your ways. You will attend to your training and lessons rather than puttering about in some human's heaven in your spare time, am I to be understood?"

The smaller angel nods, looking properly abashed. Raphael harrumphs, six green wings extending out.

"It is well, then," the Archangel murmurs, disappearing in a grand upheaval of wind.

☼☼☼

To Kanaya's infinite surprise, it has not even been much longer than a week after her chat with the Archangel Raphael that she stumbles into another much higher ranking angel of the same sort. Quite literally, she collides with him as he darts out of an open doorway in a mass of shining golden feathers and vellum scrolls. The messages go flying everywhere, and the six wings of the larger angel stiffen and jilt with the souring of his mood as he scoops them back into his arms again.

She reels backwards, flapping her mint green wings to steady herself, feeling as if she has once again over-stepped her bounds. The Archangel Gabriel whirls on her, fiery and wrathful in that terrifying way all of the elder angels can be when irritated, but stops just short of speaking snappishly or giving her any grief. Garbed in soft white robes and smelling of fragrant lilies, Kanaya recognizes him almost instantly. His head cants to the side, eyes like swirls of brightened amber, and then he beams at her in a shockingly boyish way.

"So you're the one who snuck into Dad's Throne Room under the cover of night! Nice, I hadn't thought any one of us boring old glowing monkeys were gutsy enough to pull something like that. You deserve a medal," he is in no way like Raphael, speaking excitedly and in rushed tones. The younger angel has difficulty keeping up with what he has to say, it sounds as if thousands of glittering bells are chiming melodiously inside of her. "I ought to get you one, 'though Raph might get pissy over it. How's the moniker 'She who breaks into places she shouldn't be, ever, according to Raphael' sound?"

Kanaya blinks, suddenly nervous. She feels put on the spot by his question, unsure of how to respond without being unintentionally disrespectful. Therefore, she reaches desperately for the safest route. "Sorry?" she asks, jade-coloured eyes flicking around for some kind of inspiration to form a better response from. She finds none, and her wings sag somewhat against the whitish-blue clouds surrounding them, as small and delicate as a butterfly's in comparison to the immense wings of the Archangel.

Gabriel continues speaking, ignoring or perhaps purposefully disregarding her question, and Kanaya experiences a touch of exasperated annoyance. She quickly tucks this feeling down deep inside of herself, safe from any prying eyes. This is an esteemed, greatly respected celestial being she is talking to— she must not lose her temper. He could probably crush her with a flick of his wrist, after all, although Father might not condone it. "Yeah, you're right, that one is a little tacky. Might not fit well onto the medallion I've got in mind, either. We'll have to get the ribbon to match those lovely wings of yours, too, won't we?"

He squints at her for a moment, then at her wings more closely, as if actually trying to determine what swatch of color would closely match those of her feathers. There is no way he could actually be serious. This must be some kind of test or trial, meant to keep her in line or teach her a lesson. Kanaya feels skittish under his scrutiny, but blushes at the compliment despite her worst fears.

Then, the absolute worst happens. He recognizes that she is afraid. "Wow, there's no need to act all nervous or anything. I'm not gonna smite you," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his head nervously, practically glowing with the light of his truthful earnestness. She immediately feels waves of guilt crash over her, and he notices, eyes widening and hurriedly tries to wave her emotions off. "Hey. Hey, it's cool, alright? I get that you little ones aren't especially close with most of us higher-ups, but that doesn't mean you need to be afraid. We're all brothers and sisters, you know. We love each other and all that mushy stuff."

Her failure to be soundly convinced must be obvious to him, and so Gabriel continues on sheepishly, rambling aimlessly at her in a way she has never heard a symbol of divine authority do before. "Mike always tells me I gotta lay off the jokes around you guys, you lot take everything so literally. It's kind of funny, great for pranks and all that, but I guess that stuff can get out of hand real quick if I'm not careful," he pauses, looking at Kanaya's face carefully, and she feels her brows draw together in something like disapproval. It's a bold move, but all of her books on mothering say that this is the way to do it. "Hey, don't look at me like that! Okay, okay, sorry kid. Mike doesn't have a sense of humor, lets leave it at just that. Only Lucy and I seem to be able to get a laugh around here."

She feels a giggle, unbidden and coaxingly bubbly, rise up in her throat. Then, shocked by her own behavior in joining in making fun of Michael, potential Viceroy of Heaven, Commander of God's Army, as well as the oldest Archangel living, she quickly covers her mouth and looks around guiltily. Gabriel grins at her, golden wings still spread proudly and apparently finding a good deal of fun in corrupting Kanaya into having a laugh every once in a while. He is a terrible influence. Amongst a host of detached angels, that is.

"Aw, what was that? The cutest laugh ever, I'd say," he tells her, eyes shining with mirth. "Like mewing kittens and rays of sunshine. I'll have to show you to Lucy, sometime—"

The smaller angel starts, and then shakes her head wildly, nearly working herself up into a right tizzy in her fervor to get her message across. The Archangel takes in her reaction, then looks off thoughtfully into the mottled assortment of poufy clouds, fluffed as a dove's breast and flowing slowly across the periwinkle blue sky. Small, twinkling stars wink in and out of sight, a pale sliver of the moon still visible.

"Right," Gabriel finally nods, understanding her apprehension of encountering the Morning Star. He shakes his head a little, looking down and laughing without humor. "He hasn't been in a good mood for a while now, I don't know what's up with him. Probably some disagreement with Mike; it'll blow over soon, don't worry your pretty head over it."

Kanaya feels as if it would be nearly impossible to ignore something with so much potential to turn catastrophic, but automatically defers to the judgement of an Archangel. After all, they are far older, and all the wiser for their great age. From the dank crypt of ignorance and chaos they have been able to deliver the host, and so this casual acceptance is natural for her. So, she nods agreeably.

"It would be best not to talk to him for a while, yeah?" He asks her, although she knows that this is no mere question. It is, in reality, an order clevery disguised as one. But he does not appear hostile or demanding about it; there is something... distinctly sorrowful that Kanaya perceives, and she tilts her head to the side as she looks up at him more closely.

Seeing that the green-winged fledgling had started to catch on, Gabriel rushed to change the topic of discussion. The messages in his arms can wait for a while yet, although there are frequent reminders chiming at the back of his mind that tell him he needs to get on with it, and this little one must be something special if she escaped Raphael's wrath unscathed.

"Hey," he says suddenly, coming up with an idea right off the bat. "You wanna go for a quick spin around, say, the library over there?" He points towards the library while saying this, but she already knows where it is located well enough.

For a moment, Kanaya gazes blankly back at him, a tad puzzled by his request. It is an... immature one, an offer to play a game that only those as small as Castiel may participate in without ridicule or allocation to a task that might occupy their time more fully. Racing against each other is competition, and angels should not try to best one another. This is an utterly preposterous suggestion, and she should be backing away from this insane, tricky Archangel.

Instead, she nods eagerly up at the aforementioned insane, tricky Archangel, fanning her wings out to stretch them. He beams down at her, and Kanaya cannot help but look at his greater, more powerful six wings with some trepidation.

Taking note of her look, he appears to look regretful as he speaks, overwrought as that emotion is in his voice, although he is still smiling delightedly. "I'll give you a ten second head start?"

Kanaya shakes her head in return. "Twenty," she insists.

"Uuuugh, fine," the Messenger of God, who is most definitely one of the fastest angels in existence, if not _the_ fastest, acquiesces to giving her a few seconds to go ahead. But then, a wicked grin spreading across his lips, he shouts "Go!" and Kanaya has to scramble clumsily to take flight.

She succeeds in doing so, but because of the rushed takeoff she tires a little sooner than she would like. However, there is still the elation of flight there, and that intimate joy quells the panicked jitters that shudder through her wings with each wingbeat. It has been a long time, far too long since she has been able to simply fly, without having some objective or purpose distracting her mind from the experience. Kanaya giggles gaily, as light and soft as a mouse's footsteps, the clouds dancing across her wingtips.

There is a woosh of air from above that rushes over her, causing her flight pattern to falter somewhat, and she watches in awe as the Archangel sails right over her head at an incredibly high speed. Not only that, but he is flying backwards. Upside down. Waggling his fingers teasingly at her as he goes past.

Brows drawing together in concentration, Kanaya picks up the pace, flapping her wings more furiously to increase her speed. This only serves to make her flight clumsy and tilted, but she does manage to catch up before once again falling what seems like leagues behind.

The shadows of the large, sepulcherous marble pillars fall over her when she comes within reach of the library's walls, and Kanaya fails to pull up, skidding across the floor on her landing. A hand reaches out and scoops her off of her feet, placing her back onto the ground once she isn't flailing about so much. Gabriel laughs at her, but good-naturedly so she finds no reason to be upset.

"Wow," he exclaims, patting Kanaya on the top of the head and ruffling at her wings. "You almost caught up with me!"

Kanaya puffs up with pride, feathers fluffing up comically. Even though she feels that he may have been going easy on her.

The Archangel chortles, shifting his wings and feet around in his merry-making before giving a final soft snort. "Well, I had better be off," he says, and Kanaya immediately deflates again. "Oh, don't be like that. I'll probably run into you a couple of times here and there, right?" Kanaya nods. "Exactly. Go find Michael and do cute stuff, he'll probably pass out or something from trying not to react."

Kanaya giggles a little at his words, and Gabriel gives her one last pat on the head before stepping a few paces away. "Now, I've got to go. People to meet, places to see, and all that biblical nonsense. See-ya!"

And with that, he leaps out into the blue, a maelstrom of golden feathers shining in the sun before disappearing from sight in the very next instant.

☼☼☼

The library is dark and musty, scrolls covered in faintly-glowing blue ink spilling out from the shelves and onto the cool marble floor. A cold draft runs through the center of the structure, which is refreshing after spending an entire day flying under the burning rays of the sun. Tables littered with papers and books stacked high are scattered about the place, sometimes tucked haphazardly between shelves or, if one is lucky, in a more spacious, open corner.

Tall windows radiate down from the rounded ceiling, natural light flowing in and speckled with thousands of golden dust flecks. Many of the shelves are not able to quite reach the bottom curves of the glass panes, but they come very close, and so any angel looking for a certain book has to fly upwards to secure it. This causes several problems, as the library isn't very cleanly and even the faintest of wingbeats can stir up any settled dust. Not to even mention how highly difficult clean up would be if an angel with more than one pair of wings were to enter.

Kanaya is heading towards a corner of the room that she usually makes use of. Typically, she will gather up all of the papers and scrolls that she desires to read from, spread them all cross the wooden table, and then sort through which ones that she would prefer to read sooner than all the others. It is her system, although one that tends to be messy and causes grief for the resident librarian.

Her arms are laden down with scrolls, some made of rolled up calfskin or papyrus, and she has to suppress a sneeze every time her nose brushes against them. Occasionally, her wings brush against a shelf and displace mountains of dust, which whisk up into the air before floating lazily down again. The library is mostly silent, with only the sound of Kanaya's soft footsteps imposing on the peace.

Just as she rounds a bookshelf which appears to be on the brink of keeling over from the sheer weight of the paper packed into it, Kanaya notices a strange, whitish-blue glow coming from behind the rows of shelves that shields her usual table from view. She pauses in her next step, choosing instead to muffle her approach by slowing and inching around the edge of the bookcase. She wants to see who has commandeered her prime studying spot, after all, but she must remain wary. It would be terribly rude to startle them and cause a disturbance.

It is as if an evening star has been placed there, heat coming off in intense waves. The air does not grow stifling as she draws steadily nearer, however, and so she finds no reason to turn back. Although, there is a small, plucky suspicion in her mind that perhaps she should warn the librarian of a fire. She doesn't understand why a part of her has connected this light with a fire, or why someone would be silly enough to start a fire in a library in the first place.* There is the rustling sound of fingers grazing against paper.

She peeks her head around the corner and finds... wings. Feathers like drops of pure sunlight, inlaid with rivulets of shimmery blue that look as if they have been peeled off from precious gemstones. They appear much like a decorated shield, polished and impossible to dent, until they twitch with life, like hundreds of spearheads glinting in the light. Pale flames lick through their insides, illuminating their large size and height as well as the surrounding books. There are six of them, the wings, in all, and for a moment Kanaya can only stare, mesmerized.

The angel to which the wings belong is crouched over several scrolls covered in languages that Kanaya does not understand nor recognize, and as his wings brush against the side of the table they bend and fold easily, the fire within proving to be intangible. It is then that Kanaya's nose betrays the rest of her, and she sneezes. She imagines that Gabriel would be highly amused by this sneeze, comparing it to the sound some infant creature makes. Her musings are interrupted when an essence larger than an entire planet thrums in the air, and eyes like liquid silver turn to her.

Yet another Archangel looks upon her with mixed emotions. Rather than the sternness and uncertainty of Raphael, or the excitement and praise of Gabriel, Michael appears to be mostly curious of her presence, but there is something undeniably forbidding in his features. She is unsure if this bodes ill or if it is a blessing. His eyes land upon her burden, a thoughtful look brewing there, before he simply shifts his own papers aside to make room for her at the table.

After placing her scrolls on the table, smoothing their corners gently, Kanaya peers at whatever he is doing out of the corner of her eye, only to get a face full of feathers for her trouble.

This does not necessarily mean that she hasn't caught a quick glance at a sheet full of what seems to be battle plans.

☼☼☼

A long hall extends out before her feet, golden pillars lining the walls and hefting the ceiling easily above the white marble tiles. Bountiful vases of golden flowers and fleshy green leaves spill out, almost but not quite gracing the floor. Ornate, rounded windows spiral out on either side of the hall, tones of red, blue, purple and green spread across the floor in shards and glittering diamonds of colour. Along the ceiling, intricate paintings of birds, flowers and clouds, along with details of all of God's other creations, are spread across the curved roof. Kanaya gazes up at them as she walks, her head tilted back and her tread slow.

There is a basket clutched loosely in her hands, filled to the brim with yellow dandelions and bulrushes that are to be woven together into circlets. She hopes to gift them to some of her younger brothers and sisters, for she has been so caught up in her studies as of late that she hasn't had the time to speak to them. As she walks, a soft, lyrical humming begins in her throat, mirroring that of her siblings who are conversing all throughout the Heavens. Their voices echo through the many mansions where the individual souls dwell.

She reflects that, if asked to choose between such a lavish ceiling or the contents of the library, she would much rather have the library. While the pictures are definitely lovely to look over, the library provides something more in the way of anatomical texts and amusing anecdotes in relation to said anatomical texts. Half of the beasts painted are ones that she does not recognize, and this only further proves her reasoning. Completely disregarding the fact that she chides herself for not paying enough attention in her lessons, that is.

To one side of the hallway, a trembling aspen steeple crowned with a gilded, reflective pool rises up from a wide and flattened stone, which is rounded and cut out through the center like a ring so that the sky below can still be seen. The ceiling mirrors it, clouds pouring through and cascading down in fountains of insubstantial vapor. Gentle winds breeze past, carrying the song of the choirs through the hallways.

The sound of rustling feathers draws her eyes away from the images splayed out above, and Kanaya realizes that she is not alone. There is a lone figure standing a few strides away, wings spread as he contemplates the roof, his stance similar to her own in that his head is tilted far back. Unlike herself, however, this angel is looking upon the paintings with contempt and scorn rather than fascination, his face standoffish and stormy. This, she realizes, is the Morning Star, for no other could shine as bright as he while simultaneously harboring dark within.

Most of the younger angels adore him for his lustrous wings and dazzling exterior, and it is not an uncommon bit of knowledge that he has grown vain because of it. Kanaya, while still having a great appreciation for his radiance, isn't as charmed by his preening. She doesn't find it surprising that he might be found in one of the most boldly decorated places in Heaven, but it is rather unfortunate. Another Archangel had warned her off from speaking to him, but it seems almost unavoidable in such a hallway with echoing high walls and floors. It is with some trepidation that Kanaya starts forwards.

Thankfully, he does not seem to notice her approach, and continues to frown up at the image of a jubilant human. Kanaya always finds the depictions of humans the most humorous, as they are always engaged in some clever activity or sport, and this one is no different. Garbed in nothing but the flowers placed artfully in her hair, a woman is sitting beneath an apple tree, braiding the hair of a lion into interestingly curved ringlets of gold. It is a splendid portrayal, the golden strands of hair and pinkish-yellow fruit appearing to be almost real.

Kanaya doesn't realize that the Morning Star is gazing placidly down at her until her eyes shift back towards the hall before her, and she has to draw to a halt or risk colliding with one of his vibrant wings. The song at the back of her throat tapers off as she gingerly attempts to step around him, avoiding his gaze all the while. Then, he speaks to her, and of course she cannot ignore that.

"It's just dreadful, isn't it?" He sighs, looking mournfully up at the drawing. For a moment, Kanaya believes that he might be referring to the quality of the drawing itself, and feels vaguely offended on the part of the artist, whoever they might be. But when he sneers at the painting and doesn't make any particular remarks on the execution of the brushwork, her apprehension only grows.

She declines to answer, instead peering cautiously up at him, and the Archangel continues to speak, apparently untethered by her silence. His wings flare brighter as he does so, an ethereal glow surrounding them in ribbons of white light. He seems to be mostly ignoring her as he speaks, now, looking off into the middle distance.

"Those....those beasts. And we are supposed to bend to their will? Ha," He gesticulates wildly, glaring hatefully at the painting. For a moment, she thinks that she sees a streak of veiny red flow across his wings, but in the next instant it is gone. "If I were in charge, I wouldn't let such a travesty be committed. Our father thinks he can just push us around like a bunch of mindless dolls, like humans."

His wings fan out as he starts off, striding purposefully away, and Kanaya can't help but follow. The tiles beneath their feet clink lightly, and a cool breeze blows through the hall, encircling them for a moment before pulling away. Almost as if it were listening. It whistles back from whence it came, buffeting the walls as it goes and causing quite a ruckus. Looking away from the open sky, Kanaya notices that the Archangel's wings glitter when he walks.

He stops in his agitated pacing, looking up thoughtfully for a moment. At what, Kanaya does not know. "I'm sure others agree with me," Lucifer's eyes focus on her, an icy blue that sends a chill running through her.

His voice is softer when he speaks next, softer than a mouse's footsteps. "Don't you?"

☼☼☼

The distant knoll was crowned with trees, orange and yellow-dappled fruits dipping low from their branches and sloping down into a gently babbling brook. Only the brook is doing more than babbling, further along its length; it is roaring, throwing itself over rocks and fallen limbs and whisking silvery fish along. It drops off into a wide, reflecting pond after tumbling over the jagged rocks of a waterfall. Swans and ducks delicately paddle through the deeper waters, ducking down into the gloomy mud to pick at luscious pond plants. In the shallower waters, long-legged cranes seek out browning minnows, orange claws placed carefully with each step.

Several sun-glazed stones are strewn about the side of the hill, intermingled with the roots of an enormous tree nearby. All of the chaotic dry brush and thickets have been cleared away, the dusted land now worn flat by numerous animal paths. Blue mountains rise in the distance, ringed by vast amounts of clustered trees, their shapes matched by the reflection in the pool below. The air above them is clear and unmarred by white mists, birds easily dancing through the open breeze.

Flowers of all kinds sprout up from the green land, blue and yellow butterflies lazily settling over them, a sugary scent wafting through the air. Neatly arranged bushes and shrubs are placed nearby, their edges trimmed and pink petals healthy and new. Twitchy-whiskered rodents dart through their waxy leaves, without fear of the lazing jackal or bushy-tailed fox. Up above, songbirds sing loud and true, light voices rising and falling in volume. The ears of a sandy lion flick, golden-brown eyes moving briefly to the lamb laying peaceably at its side. A woollen ram grazes underneath the boughs of a mighty oak.

There is the faint sound of a leave crinkling underfoot, and the lion looks lazily up, its eyes hooded. A small angel peers out from behind a bundle of cattails, blinking curiously at the relaxed feline. The lion yawns at her, large incisors and a pink tongue like sandpaper showing briefly before its mouth closes. A lioness approaches from under the shade of a tree, flopping down into the grass and dirt before rolling in it. Her claws dig into the soil, stretching playfully. All the while, the angel continues to watch, eyes wide and puzzled.

Another angel materializes silently beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder, and the lion starts to pay more attention. This new angel, it knows, for this is the Gardener. The one who clears away all of the annoying worries, such as thorns and brambles and pain, only to replace them with less damaging plants. This angel, the lion knows, is good. But before it can greet him, they are both gone, only a few swiftly-falling feathers remaining.

The lion yawns again, shaking its thick mane.

\---

"It's not every day that I receive visitors, you know," the Gardener tells her. His voice is warm and kind from years of cultivating life. Kanaya instantly likes him.

After having flown them under the shade of a tree with wide-reaching branches, Joshua has been nothing but kind to her. She can understand why he is so skilled at his work, and also why he seems to be so even-tempered. The Gardens are beautiful, filled with a wealth of flora and fauna that is unmatched by most of Earth's continents, and it would be nearly impossible to carry a speck of darkness within a soul while in such a wondrous setting. Plumeria flowers, all soft white and with curves of buttery yellow, grow around them from small shrubs and trees.

A small blue bird settles nearby, glossy feathers reflecting what little sunlight leaks through the cacophony of trees above, darker teal shadows covering its breast and beak. Turning its head to look at them, blinking yellow eyes like the center of a daisy in bloom, it chirrups thoughtfully at Joshua. Without needing any further instruction, the Gardener extends his arm to the bird, letting it land delicately upon his wrist.

"Although I cannot claim to ever be lonely," he murmurs, several new birds of brilliant colors settling on his shoulders. When far too many have gathered there, he shrugs, mindful of the delicate bones and claws that are clinging to him. Several take to the air, a myriad of shades mixing as they return to the treetops.

Most, however, choose to instead use Kanaya as their new perch, tittering musically all the while. The song tickles her ears and she laughs joyously, speaking to the birds in her own tongue.

Joshua looks on, smiling.

☼☼☼

Heaven's Garden is as lush and vibrant as ever, appearing as it always has to the Gardener. He thinks, perhaps, that this is how the Lord has always wanted him to see it as, and maybe how the Lord views it himself.

Tall trees, many of them bearing luscious fruit that lowered the branches with their weight, shadow over the brush below and create a green tunnel of shade for hares to burrow into. Grey and white doves coo in the spindly branches of old olive trees, nesting there and carefully tucked into their beds of moss and loose feathers. Grasshoppers chirruped in short bursts amongst long blades of grass in the shimmering midday heat, dewy saplings showering over them.

Joshua has been listening to the gentle, light birdsong that drifts through the air when a voice speaks in his ear. "Hello Joshua," the Lord says. "The apocalypse, huh? Nasty business, that. I know that it has been troubling you, and so I have assigned a certain angel to the task of cleaning things up before my return."

"Which angel?" Joshua beseeches of God, who he cannot see, has never seen, and who always gives off the impression that he is smiling because he knows something that you do not. "Castiel?"

"Oh, no, although he is trying his best I am afraid Castiel is not fit for such a task. I have another child of mine hidden away, but you must not disclose this to anyone. Not to the Archangels, nor the Seraphs or Thrones. A civil war is coming, and I fear that she might become a target. This angel's task will determine the fate of Heaven and the holy hosts."

The light in the Throne Room slants, bends and forms several more wide, algae-dappled ponds with multi-colored frogs leaping across. Most seem to have entire galaxies of flecks peppering they smooth skin like stars when they disappear below the pond scum and yellow and pink-flowering lily pads, the bumps of their golden eyes reappearing only moments later.

"There," God says, serenely. "That'll liven up the place, hm?"

The Gardener agrees; the amphibious creatures do provide a certain something to the Garden. But that does not sway his attention from the subject at hand as the Lord might have intended it to. "Is there anything else that you will need me to do, besides what we have already spoken of?"

He, you know the one, goes quiet for a moment, the birds eerily falling silent as well. Joshua listens intently as the Lord begins to speak again in slow, deliberate words. "Yes. There will be a woman, sometime in the twenty first century, who will die and whose soul will ascend to Heaven. You should... let her remain there for a while, until she has sent the Winchester brothers to you."

Ah. The Winchesters. The prophesied vessels. The Righteous Man and the Boy King. Joshua nods in understanding, and the Lord continues.

"Her name is Pamela Barnes. When the brothers have departed, you must return her soul to her body. Do not tell others of what you will do. Revive her, put her in a safe place; tell her that she must not speak to the brothers of her resurrection until... well, she will be a psychic. She will discover this on her own."

As always, the Lord's ways are as inscrutable as ever. Joshua doesn't mind, and agrees to do as the Lord has asked without hesitation.

\---

It is infinitely painful to tell the Winchester brothers of God's absence and lack of purposeful intervention, despite knowing the truth. He feels a great deal of empathy towards their cause, but has been forbidden to reveal any of the Lord's ineffable plan.

It is even more painful when he falls, crackling wings ripped from his back and falling in rivulets of white-hot, silvery flame. He does not scream or wail as he plummets towards the Earth's soil, does not make a sound. He has faith in the Lord and this angel who he has chosen to save them.

When he comes to his feet inside of a sloping crater, unable to fly and feeling separated from a part of himself, torn from him and clipped like the thorns of a pure spring rose, he remembers.

_This angel's task will determine the fate of Heaven and the holy hosts. ___

He can't help but wonder just who this extraordinary angel is.

There is an imposing jungle surrounding him, a dark volcanic mountain looming in the distance and shrouding part of the forest with it's bulk. All around his feet are coils of vines, attached to rounded pumpkins that look almost brown under the shadows of the trees. Joshua smiles, for the Lord has been looking out for him.

A snuffling noise at his side brings him out of his reverie, and he turns to see a mass of white fur laying on the ground nearby, head rested upon it's paws. It looks up at him, no eyes visible on it's face, and perks it's pointed ears expectantly.

"Who are you?" Joshua asks, recognizing that this is no mere earthly canine.

With a yawn that shows off a glowing, neon green tongue, the dog pushes itself to it's feet and starts off into the jungle at a trot, tail waving lazily. It is then that Joshua notices the tall, sepulchral tower in the distance, with multiple garden beds surrounding it. Clouds with faint, flickering images inside hang overhead.

Slightly bewildered, Joshua follows.

☼☼☼

The street outside was very nearly empty, only a few people daring to clumsily tread through the greying haze of ice and snow. A neat row of icicles hung from the overhead awnings of small shops, trembling all a flutter with a dull glistening of their surfaces when a car passed them by on the narrow street.

One of the dusty old stores that was so precariously situated beside the road was the pride and joy of one Mr. Fell, a bookish-looking man with questionable taste in fashion but an excellent sense for rare, possibly priceless books. On most days such as the particularly wintry one described, Mr. Fell could be found quietly reading through scripture, motionless and lost to the world around him, perhaps with a cup of tea already gone cold resting on any flat surface nearby, only to be roused by the sudden ring of the bell attached to the door. Such was the largely untroubled life of Mr. Fell.

Most of the books to be found in his quaint little shop had been lost to time and space, seemingly, but had miraculously found their way to the eager hands of Mr. Fell one way or another; No matter the time period in which they had disappeared nor carefully purchased or handed down. That was because, unlike any other bookkeepers you might find on a lonely street in Soho, Mr. Fell was an angel. A principality, to be unnecessarily precise but not unwelcome information, nonetheless. And his name was Aziraphale.

He had just closed up shop, placed the lovely hand-painted 'Sorry, We're Closed' sign upon the door, and was busying himself with preparing a nice cup of tea. That is, until the bell that signaled the opening of the door chimed, causing Aziraphale to sigh heavily.

"I'm terribly sorry," he called out, a frown making its way across his normally docile face. "But we are closed for the day."

"Of course you are," a friendly voice cheers at him, and the angel turns to see a young man rapping sharply upon his counter nonsensially. He has dark hair, a mustache forming on his upper lip, and a smattering of short beard stubble covering his jaw. Strangely enough, he is wearing khaki shorts and a short-sleeved jacket with too many pockets to count in this dreadful weather. "I just thought I'd drop by for a little visit, Aziraphale."

A shocked expression passes across the angel's face, his eyes going wide in shock before he manages to school his face into a much calmer expression. This fellow is definitely not human, then. The angel quietly tries to locate a more strategic place to stand, but finds that there really isn't one. Oh, bother. "Who are you?" he asks instead, hoping to distract this stranger who has invaded his bookshop and knows one of his better-kept secrets.

Green eyes stare peaceably back into his own, like two tranquil pools of... oh, whatever, there isn't any time for extravagant comparisons anyways. This not-human could be plotting to kill him, for Heaven's sake. "Oh, no, I wouldn't dream of doing that. I'm just here to talk about that demon friend of yours, What's-His-Name. Growley? Or maybe the name of that one Roman emperor? Tony?"

"I think you mean Crowley," Aziraphale corrects, a bit of exasperation leaking into his tone. "That's the only demon friend I have." If you could even call what they have a friendship anymore. Crowley rarely stops by now that there has been this whole Second Apocalypse business going on in America, and he refuses to let Aziraphale help. It really is inconvenient.

"Right you are! I'd forgotten after so many long years," a distant look comes into the young man's eyes, and for a moment the angel thinks that he seems... older. Ancient, even. Far more ancient than himself. This strange intuition is blown away when the humanoid being looks up again, eyes shining and a disarming grin splitting across his face. "Anyways, you shouldn't worry too much about him. He can take care of himself, even thought the load of malarkey he's getting into isn't exactly safe, not to rag on him.... you wouldn't happen to have a cup of tea to spare, would you?"

Aziraphale blinks once, twice. Then, he turns away to fix another cup for his visitor, carefully watching him out of the corner of his eye. "How do you know about what Crowley is doing? You still haven't told me who you are, either." He is still turned away when the man answers.

"Oh, I know plenty of things. Loads, really. More than your dusty old books could tell you, that's for sure! But back to what I was trying to tell you before; something gosh awful is going to happen, but you've gotta stay out of it this time! No funny business, mister, I mean it. Especially with that demon of yours, no cavorting around and hallooing until you're out of the worst of it. The Darkness will stir. Things will be dangerous, strange and terrible. Do not interfere."

Feeling mighty offended by some odd stranger chiding him as if he were a child, Aziraphale turned around see the rest of the bookshop empty.

He is surprised to find himself well and truly alone.

☼☼☼

It has been so very hard for him to adjust to this newfound state of humanity. He feels weak, exposed, and prone to all sorts of danger. There is a part of him that supposes that this would be infinitely easier to adapt to if he had never been an angel at all, or had tried harder to remain as one. Yet, he was a fool, and this is his punishment. This accursed humanity.

Castiel glances across the booth of the diner that they are in at the Winchester brothers. People, loud and mostly silent alike, mill about the counters and other cushioned seats, many shifting colors that muddle together in the former angel's mind and disorient him. There are so many new sensations, heat and ice and scents and pain and feelings and— well, there is an immense amount of new information that he had not been partial to before that he now cannot ignore.

He wonders, as he stares at how Sam and Dean interact with one another, how they are so easily able to dismiss so much of what is going on around them. Only, he knows that this is not true. They are both watchful of the comings and goings of others, tracking movement seemingly subconsciously out of the corners of their eyes. It is impressive, and a skill that Castiel will have to cultivate more specifically now. Even before he had lost his wings and been cut off from Heaven, he had been very interested in watching the daily lives of humans. Yet he had never imagined that he would need to use this gathered information in relation to himself.

The brothers look up as one, suddenly, Dean's green eyes locking with his own blue ones for a moment before flicking pointedly to Castiel's left. Just as he is beginning to turn to look, a weight settles into the smooth, curved surface of the booth beside him. A comforting buzz meanders at the back of his brain. Both of the Winchesters tense, preparing to either do battle or make a break for it.

As it turns out, they have to do neither. A dark-haired man with a slightly overgrown five o'clock shadow pats Castiel on the shoulder, grins goofily at him, then proceeds to steal his black coffee. After taking a tentative sip, the man tuts disapprovingly, reaching out to grab several packets of sugar and dump them into the mug.

Dean is the first to break the ensuing awkward silence. "What the hell, dude?"

The strange man mumbles something to himself that sounds vaguely like some exclamation a person from the Victorian age might make, at least to the former angel's discerning ear. Then, he looks up from his— Castiel's —coffee, green eyes shining and bright. "Hello," he greets in a kind tone of voice, but that does nothing to assuage their fears. "The name's Jake English. I take it you lot are just cruising through town, then?" He begins to pick at what remains of Castiel's half-buttered toast.

"Yeah," Sam reluctantly admits, hand searching for a hidden knife in his pant leg. Dean glares at him for confessing as much.

Stuffing a crunchy bread crust into his mouth, Jake English continues to speak around the mouthful of food. "Gee whiz, you lot are always doing something, aren't you? Maybe you should take a break. Stop by some old friends' houses. I know just the one, too," he grins at them. "Pamela Barnes. You could get there in just two or three day's time."

Sam stops rooting around for a weapon to stare. Eyes shifting warily, Dean scowls at English. "Pam's dead. Saw her at the Pearly Gates. Who the hell are you, really?"

Completely ignoring both Winchesters, English turns to Castiel, still smiling. "By gum! How you've grown, Castiel. Don't worry, poppet, there's hope for you yet." With that last admission, he stands to leave, taking the rest of the former angel's breakfast with him. Not even Dean's repeated protests slow him down as he walks out the diner door, cheerful bells ringing in his wake.

Carefully, Sam turns to look at Dean. "We going to Pam's place?" he asks, face still scrunched up in confusion.

"You bet we are," Dean grouses back at him.

Castiel continues to stare after the retreating figure that merrily traipses away down the street, wondering why he feels so suddenly at peace.

☼☼☼

Metatron suspects.

It was not clear to him at first, but there is a slight fault in his plan. After throwing the angels out of Heaven, there has been a niggling thought at the back of his mind; there is... something that he does not know of taking place. Something clandestine, flying under his radar so to speak. He _despises_ the mere idea.

However, this could have the potential to make things more interesting for him. Even considering it, that there is a little tidbit hiding somewhere that may leap out and surprise him at any moment, is exciting. Perhaps some unforeseen force will rise up and devastate his enemies even further, leaving them stunned and spluttering? Or, maybe, somewhere out there, a hero is looking to halt his operations and best him, taking Heaven for themselves. Either way, or even along an alternative route in the universe's grand plot, this will be a riveting experience.

And he does so _love_ a good story.

☼☼☼

They pull up beside a run-down motel at almost eleven o'clock at night someplace in Illinois. Karkat's a zombie, stumbling out into the dusty parking lot and mumbling swears when his ankles don't hit the pavement right. Above, the 'N' in the No Vacancy sign flickers ominously, neon pink light washing over the rusted car whenever it glows and gives an electrical splutter.

He barely resists kicking at one of the tires for good measure, but any activity would be too physically tiring. And so, Karkat tramps sloppily towards the cramped lobby entrance, a pack of necessities on his shoulder and Kanaya dogging at his heels.

They had been driving for hours, and are now in a more heat-kissed land, speckled with rough sandstone and unpleasant-looking plants, coaxing waxy pastel flowers ringed by barbs and stingers.

The lobby is thankfully mostly empty, and the receptionist at the desk which seems to be more of a coffee table looks startled when he raises his head to acknowledge them. He blinks hurriedly and scrubs at his eyes, struggling to fully address them. Sleeping on the job, Karkat surmises.

With a few dispassionate glares and then unsettling stares on the part of Kanaya, he wheedles their way into an acceptable room. There are flat surfaces to splay himself out on, anyways, and Karkat doesn't waste any time in throwing himself on the scratchy cotton comforter. A loud sigh leaves his lungs, whisking away the hardships of the day and making him feel lighter for it. Motors of on the road rumble at the edge of his hearing, a steady, thunderous rolling in the distance.

Soft footsteps against the rugged carpet cause him to stir, and Karkat watches Kanaya look contemplatively out the window, her skin appearing oddly luminous from the lights outside. Then, the curtains are tugged shut and the illusion is gone, the whole room swathed in blue-tinged darkness. He hears the lightly stained hotel armchair creak as a weight settles carefully into it.

Soon, his breathing slows and steadies itself out, creating a monotonous rhythm in the dark.

Karkat sleeps.

\---

The prophet dreams.

There is a feeling of settling at the bottom of an ocean and a warm stirring in his breast. The waves of calm surrounding him brush across his face in muted jubilee, and the world is dark. He feels, rather than sees, the golden bells chiming in the distance, a melodious tinkling noise intertwined with muffled voices singing.

Then, a rose-colored window materializes out of nowhere, hanging in the empty space where Karkat's subconscious is drifting. The central medallion depicts a bearded man with a golden halo surrounding his head, petals of blue and white interlocking and weaving delicately out from the center of the pane. Twelve trefoil panels depict different many-winged creatures, most holding musical instruments. Pale white feathers slowly fall from an unseen source around him.

Karkat is unsure of his dreaming state for only a moment before a voice speaks to him, ringing over the swell of the ocean in his ears.

So youre the prophet whos been looking after my darling kanaya!

UH, WHAT? AM I READING THIS OR HEARING IT.

Dark green text scrawls across his mind's eye, playfully dodging his question.

It is good to speak with you at long last. Shes quite a handful, isnt she? But she is of such importance, now more than ever.

OKAY SERIOUSLY THIS IS GETTING WEIRD. HOW DO YOU KNOW KANAYA, AGAIN? I DON'T THINK KANAYA HAS EVER MENTIONED HAVING COFFEE AND COOKIES WITH A DISEMBODIED VOICE. WHAT'S THIS BUSINESS WITH CALLING ME A PROPHET, TOO? YOU'RE LIKE THE SECOND PERSON TO CALL ME THAT!

Oh its nothing really, just your role in how my grand ineffable plan is supposed to unfold! Ive been awfully busy keeping these horrorterrors in the furthest ring where they belong and— gadzooks! Is that tear? I really must be off. Pockets all over my earth are no good. Elder gods have to be beat down and all that jazz.

NOW HOLD ON JUST ONE FUCKING MINUTE, ASSHOLE—

Farewell, karkat!

There is a too-long frustrating moment where Karkat is still ensconced in darkness, unable to wake from this annoyingly unpleasant dream. Then, the voice starts in on him again.

Uhm, wait a second. Maybe i should come up with an interesting prophecy for you to decipher. Okay, here goes: the rooster crows at midnight, the shadow falls over the tallest sycamore?

WHAT?

Yikes, youre right, that one does seem rather theatrical. How about something more literal... the lone dog howls at the earliest hour, wake up and eat some scrambled eggs. Or sunny-side-up, whichever suits you. But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and pamela barnes is the sun.

WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? WHO'S PAMELA BARNES? WHY AREN'T YOU CAPITALIZING WORDS CORRECTLY OR USING APOSTROPHES?

Bye now!

\---

Morning has not yet manifested fully in the sky when Karkat stirs. There is a purple mist on the horizon, occasionally broken by the light of street lamps and the headlights of cars. Their vehicle is parked under the only lamp positioned over the motel parking lot, long shadows spreading wide over the cracked pavement, yellowed weeds bursting through. A restless breeze tangles through the branches of tall trees and the crisp scent of newly shed pine needles becomes apparent. Somewhere, the broken yips and howls of a coyote rise towards the fading moon.

As she stares out into the night through the floral-patterned curtains, Kanaya considers raising her voice and calling out to the morning stars, but instead curves her neck to look out across the plains. Orange light tickles across the the purple tops of mountains, scissor-tailed birds singing a wayward chorus for the return of the day. In the distance, through the blue, foggy clouds and mist, Kanaya thinks she can see wispy figures dancing still under the cover of what remains of the night.

Apparitions made of sand and dust appear to prance about in the desert, reddish almond eyes glittering in the dark and barking laughingly at scurrying, plump mice beneath the ground. Phantom torchlight follows them, a hypnotizing clattering of bones signifying their every move, deep, chanted words echoing through the hot sands. With a gust of wind which stirs the small shrubs poking up in the dry land, they are spirited away and return to the dry topsoil.

Instead of waking fully, Karkat rolls over and mumbles a few growled curses into his pillow. His hair is now sticking up ridiculously in odd places, and Kanaya smiles fondly at him while he rests, albeit not as peacefully as she would have liked. She is becoming attached, despite his brash and often disagreeable behavior. The dark circles hanging under his eyes worry her endlessly, however; she would very much prefer it if he were to sleep for much longer than he usually does. A handful of hours is not a sufficient amount of time for humans to achieve optimum restfulness or hold on to their mental faculties.

More so than ever, Kanaya frets that she might very well be the one who is causing detriment to his health. Then again, before she had even spent more than three hours in his presence he had still seemed like a very worn down young man. It is in his posture, his gait; Karkat is not one who takes care of himself. Therefore, Kanaya concludes, with a pleased little smile in the dark room, she must be the one to look after his needs.

The human laying on the bed shifts again, rougher and more precise this time, and Kanaya knows that he must be waking. Rushing to stoop over his bedside, she reaches out to cradle the side of his face, touching two fingers to his temple and once again lulling him into a peaceful sleep. She retreats a few steps after doing so, back towards her perch, watching him for any signs of distress before settling back into the comfortable armchair.

She should have kept a closer eye on the car.

☼☼☼

When the early morning sun sends bright rays through their window, banishing all remnants of shadows and dreams from the room, Karkat's eyes fly open. He hardly recalls the dream he has just had, only a vague, foggy outline remaining at the very back of his mind. Maybe it is for the better that he cannot recall.

The human sits up, scrubbing at his unruly mop of dark hair and scalp with a hand while yawning widely. Then, blinking a few times in the harsh sunlight flowing in, he trundles off to take a quick morning shower. He does not notice that the room is empty or that it is midday.

He walks out, dresses himself in a sweatshirt and the same warm-ups as the before, and looks thoughtfully around the room. Realization hits; he needs to brush his teeth. Like, badly. Humming, he walks back into the bathroom to do just that, returning shortly afterwards with his breath tingling as well as smelling minty fresh.

Only then does he realize that something, or, rather, someone, is missing. Kanaya.

In an extreme state of panic, Karkat checks behind the curtains and the armchair she had been sitting in the night before. He doesn't really know why he might have thought an angel might choose to hide in such a place, but he is so fearful of what might have happened to her that it never occurs to him that he might be looking in the most insipid place possible.

Without any kind of preamble, the door to their motel room is thrust open. Karkat spins around, a hunted expression on his face, to see Kanaya standing there, proudly holding a disposable foam plate in her hands. On this plate are a good amount of crumbly bread bits, which she swipes at with a finger before bringing said finger to her mouth in the blink of an eye.

"What," Karkat starts to say before interrupting himself. He has a better question to pursue, anyways. "Where have you been?"

The angel in question stares sorrowfully down at the plate clutched in her hands, for it is empty and barren of any spare crumbs. "I had not realized that human food would be so... well, good, I suppose. Nor had I known that it was a custom to offer rations as well as respite in one of your human 'motels'."

Karkat stares blankly at the plate in Kanaya's grip, slowly drawing the dots together, and finally circling the resultant shape. "Wait," he says, and Kanaya waits for him to finish his thought. "This is a B & B?"

\---

Not even ten minutes later and they are sitting downstairs at a small wooden table, Kanaya sampling a plateful of blueberry muffins and occasionally making appreciative comments to Karkat. For the most part, Karkat doesn't give any kind of rejoinder, too occupied with the syrupy pancakes that are piled upon his plate, but he does try his best to offer up conversation whenever direct replies are asked of him.

He's looking down at an almost-empty plate when he sees it. About a quarter of a pancake remains on his plate, the rest of it covered by sticky maple syrup. As his eyes meander over it, he sees something strange flitter through the shallow recesses of amber-colored liquid. When he leans his head down a little to look at it, plastic fork clenched firmly in his right hand, a single word appears: _car_.

"What?" Karkat asks nobody in particular, staring into the leftovers on his plate like a crazed lunatic. The angel sitting across from him spares him a worried glance, surreptitiously slipping a few sugar packets from the table-ware and into her lap.

Shaking his head, Karkat returns to stabbing vehemently at his soggy pancakes. There is no way he is seeing things in his food, now. Visions or not, that would be just plain weird. Not only weird, it would be absolutely ridiculous. He'd be a laughing stock at best if he wasn't thrown into some kind of mental institution right off. Karkat, the guy who sees words in food that isn't alphabet soup. Giving a derisive snort, Karkat waves off Kanaya's concerned looks.

That doesn't stop him from sneaking peeks thoughtfully out at the car a few times, though.

\---

They are on the road again. Their rusted car travels quickly over the often cracked or littered asphalt, sun beating down upon it's hood and the corn fields passing by in a blur of green. The sky above is blue, as most stories go, but there isn't a cloud in sight. Kanaya is leaning her face against the cool, concave window, staring into the distance while Karkat drives. The silence in the car is comfortable.

Suddenly, Kanaya jerks upright, nearly causing Karkat to swerve off the road and into the ditch.

"What did you do that for?" He screeches once he has regained control of the vehicle, grip going white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

The angel casts her eye around, peering at the thin, muddy rugs lining the floor and piles of mixed media. Then, inscrutably, she sniffs lightly at the air. "I smell something," she tells Karkat.

"You _what_?" Karkat asks, sparing her the shortest of glances while still trying to keep his eyes on the road. Meanwhile, Kanaya begins to dig through the scratchy seat cushions, a concerned look on her face. When she moves on to the piles upon piles of books and DVDs, the human begins to become worried. "What is it?"

Making a small 'ah' sound, she delicately lifts something up from the floor. It's speckled with dust and grime, and brown in coloration. Karkat leans over to inspect the small leather pouch, a pucker appearing between his brows as he looks it over. "What the fuck is that?" he asks, as Kanaya slips it open and begins to sort through it's contents. He doesn't recall buying an air freshener anywhere.

"A petrified rat and several strange herbs that I do not recognize," she tells him, and Karkat has to resist the urge to jerk away. Instead, his face twists in disgust, just as he turns back towards the road ahead.

He is just in time to see a gigantic humanoid shape lope into their path, and as he swerves to try and avoid it the car barrels straight into the ditch, crashing through overhanging limbs and rolling in a mess of shattered glass, dirt and damp leaves.

Karkat's head collides with something hard, a sharp crack reverberating through his skull before everything goes black.

☼☼☼

The wind whistles long and low through her office window, and Rose Lalonde rises from her desk chair to close it. After clamping it shut, she stares out into the strangely pleasant weather outside of the building. A building wholly undeserving of such lovely weather due to its accursed dealings. The sky is blue, the sun is smilingly overhead, and there isn't a speck of ominous grey in sight. The view outside at the moment is almost... too perfect. Far too scenic through the filmy glass panes. Like the calm before the storm.

She turns back to her desk, strides over to slump back down into her chair. It is a comfortable chair, with wheels attached to the bottom, so she has spent many a spare hour aimlessly spinning around while awaiting a new assignment. There is not much to do at the moment, as luck would have it, and so she does just that. As she whirls around for the second or third time, whitish-blonde hair whipping around, she reflects on her insignificant place in this company.

Betty Crocker Co. is undoubtedly sinister. It's patron and owner, Ugly Betty herself, has been ruling it with an iron fist for what seems like decades according to the company history and word of mouth. There are no written records of the company changing hands, no heirs or heiresses to the fortune. Only baked goods and menacing, acutely manicured nails. It is a genuine wonder that Rose has not quit yet; her job as a marketing analyst is odiously simple. There just isn't any competition that can stand up to the Crocker name, or who won't get the heck out of dodge at the first sign of trouble.

And so it was odd to Rose when a new upstart company appeared a while back, seemingly out of thin air, and began to openly challenge Crocker. Odd, but refreshing. The big kahuna up top went into a nearly bloodthirsty frenzy once she realized where all of their missing profits and loyal consumers had run off to, and she had been terribly sure to pay the marketing team a visit. Rose still shudders at the memory; She had never seen a white board splinter like that.

SucroCorp was the rival company's name, run by a man by the name of Dick Roman. If you could even call him that. Rose had only seen him once, having been called into a meeting room to stand beside the Crocker Baroness herself during very delicate negotiations. She hadn't said a word to him. That encounter alone had been enough for her vague gage on the supernatural to go positively ballistic. For, as a psychic, Rose has always been particularly skilled at telling when something isn't quite natural.

Thankfully, SucroCorp had disappeared as suddenly as it had shown up in the first place, along with Dick Roman and his terrifying entourage.

A misleading, soft 'ding' alerts Rose to a new e-mail. It could be her Psychicks Anonymous weekly update, or it could be a new assignment. Probably to design a new advertisement for a billboard or Southern Cooking magazine. She looks over he inbox and selects a message from the Batterwitch herself, brows raising exponentially as she contemplates it. There are at least a dozen other persons who have received this very same message as well, and she does not recognize any of their names. Save for one. Dick Roman of Richard Roman Enterprises.

Rose feels a sickening, cold drop in the temperature of the room as she skims over the e-mail, realizing that she was not meant to be viewing this message. It is clearly not meant for her eyes, strange characters that she has only expressed a passing interest towards in the past squiggled across the screen. And yet, she cannot seem to stop reading this damning message.

There is an image file attached. Her cursor hovers over it, plaintive and reluctant as Rose nibbles thoughtfully on her lower lip. Should she really be looking at this? Should she delete this electronic message and pretend as if it had never arrived in her inbox? Could she be fired for this, or even worse? This is dangerous, she knows. Far more dangerous than any other e-mails she has received before, including that one from her history professor back in university about her missing report on the Battle of Waterloo. These sigils aren't used in everyday e-mail conversations. And yet... she has always been of the adventurous sort.

She selects the image with a click of her mouse. The .GIF file begins in darkness, only a faint stirring of shadows showing that something is on there monitor. Then, all at once, there is light. Reflections from the video flicker across her face, fire and light mixing and coalescing across the screen in the shape of brilliant, lovely wings. A lone figure runs through the flames, untouched by the fire that licks at her skirts, and for but a brief moment, their face and appearance is as clear as day.

 _Oh no,_ Rose thinks, groaning miserably into a balled-up fist. _She's hot._ And playing on a company computer under very suspicious circumstances. And clearly not human at all, hence the nearly transparent wings arching from her back.

There is a jitter of movement at the upper left corner of the computer monitor, an application or program requesting permission to open. She shifts the cursor to hover over the icon, intending to close it, but ends up expanding the chat window instead. Oh boy.

The Serious Business application is done up in a boring slate-grey, much of the text having similar dull tones. Unfortunately, this chat program is compatible with Pesterchum and links her account through immediately. Rose winces dramatically.

The following matters have been submitted in a frank and forthright manner for tentacleTherapist's judicious appraisal. 

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has joined the memo! --

)(IC: anyway i cant deal w this prissy hat chat no more  
)(IC: tha fuck  
)(IC: no they havent  
TT: Shit.  
)(IC: @doggedRavenousness yo is this one a yours  
DR: I'm afraid not. Has this line of communication been infiltrated, then?  
TT: Fuck.  
)(IC: wait a sec  
)(IC: hold the fuck up  
)(IC: youre that psychic gurl in marketin whos into woegothics or some shit  
)(IC: ur ass is fired #DWI

It is then that Rose figuratively wishes that she had inserted her foot into her mouth.

TT: How magnanimous of you. However, that will not be altogether necessary, based upon the grounds that I quit.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has ollied out of the memo! --

DR: Holy shit.  
DR: She TOLD you.  
)(IC: stfu

Rose prints off the e-mail as quickly as electronically and physically possible, snatching it up on her way out the door. She also takes the time to stuff her (company-issue) tablet inside of her bag, walking briskly out into the hallway. She knows the way to the exit well, dreams of it during the brief and sparse cat naps that she can convince herself to take. Being on the sixth floor, it should take her ten minutes to get down there.

She has almost made it to the elevator when pounding footsteps sound from behind. Rose half-turns, freezes when she sees that it is a member of the building's security personnel, and completely abandons the idea of using the elevator. Instead, she switches directions and makes for the stairwell at a run, feet sliding over the smooth linoleum floors.

The cold metal door to the stairs catches against her shoulder painfully, and Rose remembers that the hinges were in desperate need of being oiled about a week before. Still, she presses into it with all her might until it grudgingly opens, sending a piercing shriek echoing up and down the way. As she runs down the stairs, taking the steps two or three at a time, she recalls a ridiculous, shitty .jpeg file that her brother had sent her once pertaining to stairs. What had it been again?

Her sneakers miss a step. A brief, stomach-clenching feeling of falling washes over her like ice water, and she goes hurtling forwards down the last four steps.

Ah, yes. There it is.

_I WARNED YOU ABOUT THE STAIRS BRO!!!!_

_I TOLD YOU DOG!_

☼☼☼

It takes a while for him to actually get his eyes open, but Karkat does eventually manage it. His head hurts like a mother, his eyes feeling like they may have been stuck shut with superglue, and so everything is blurry and muddled when he tries to look around. His sense of smell has not failed him, however, and the putrid smell that curls into his nostrils when he tries to breathe almost makes him gag. He doesn't recall ever smelling anything so horrible, save for maybe back at that Wal-Mart from before. That encounter still gives him the shivers. What he does recognize right off the bat, however, is that he is hanging upside down.

Almost immediately, he tries to wriggle his way out of the cocoon-like threads wrapped around his body, but stills when he hears someone begin to speak.

"Oh, goody," a feminine voice coos, like honey dripping off a pile of crumbled sugar cubes. "Your friend's finally awake. That hex bag worked like a charm!"

"Release us immediately," a familiar voice, Kanaya, says, charged with power and her tone clipped. "Or I will raze the earth where you stand."

There's an answering laugh, and finally Karkat can see. At least for a small distance. There's a teenage girl standing a few feet away from them, and he notes with some frustration that she is taller than him. "You couldn't do anything to me even if you weren't so boxed in, angel! Now, I've got to go grab some herbs and such to prepare a nice spell for you two. All of these fallen angels running amok, and now I've got a winged one! Sure, most of their organs are great for spells, if you can get them to stop fighting, but imagine the possibilities! Simply limitless!"

"What," Kanaya's voice gains something _else_ behind it, something vicious and terrible. It reminds Karkat of a mother grizzly bear, strangely enough. "Are you talking about?"

The teenage girl, who's wearing a ton of strange wooden and bone charms around her wrists and neck, carelessly waves off Kanaya's question. "Whatever, there's no sense in telling you now. I'll let my friends here watch over you while I'm gone," she waves at them once while breezing out through a tunnel, which has natural light spilling out of it. They must be underground somewhere. "Ta-ta!"

He only has to wonder for a brief moment who these 'friends' of hers are before he catches sight of them, and suddenly Karkat understands where the stench must be coming from. Two upright figures, shoulders hunched and covered in slimy, bulbous green skin, watch the pair of them with beady black eyes. Hair that is thick and ropy spills out from the tops of their skulls, wavy and with pieces of mud clotted in the strands. Their faces are grotesquely wrinkled, noses jutting out and knarled below cavernous eye sockets, and Karkat watches in horrified fascination as one scratches disinterestedly at its chin with long fingers that end in dangerously sharp claws.

One of the pair, wearing a loincloth with human and animal skulls alike cinching it together at their hip, mutters to the other in a scratchy, rounded voice. "Lookit that burr' over there," he gestures to Kanaya, who bristles. "Bet that 'un is a gud killslay. Softmeats."

The other settles down on a rock, picking idly at it's nose. Rotting deerskin settles over it's shoulders. "No," the female says in an even tone, although her voice is cracked around the edges and more of a growl. "Mus' nae killslay the ang'l. Agains' orders, kyarr."

Karkat looks sharply over at Kanaya, panicked, only to see that she is surrounded by strange sigils and lines painted in fresh blood. She seems to be as upset as he is.

Unfortunately, Karkat's sudden movement attracts the attention of the hungry beasts. "Ayak," the male exclaims, peering at Karkat with squinted eyes. Kanaya's glare focuses on him specifically. "There's a gud 'un. No rules aboot 'im." He grins, an ugly, yellow-fanged smile that makes Karkat unsurprisingly feel even more afraid that he was before. He looks wildly around, swinging slightly from where he hangs from the ceiling. Roots sprawl across the top of the dug-out tunnels, small tubers poking out in places. A glint of slowly-rusting metal catches his eye. Iron or steel, then.

"Eeyusk," the hulkish form of the other river troll rises to it's three-toed feet, hands twitching at it's sides as if thinking about making a grab for him. Karkat wriggles a hand down until it is pinned to his chest by the wrappings. A little more, and he'll have his arm free and will be able to reach the dagger. "V'ry much nices. Cannae rrrm'mber anythin', no. Much mist'aak if troub'l, yes?" She takes a slow step towards him, only just a foot away, her craggy face twisted into a bone-chilling smile.

His arm is freed, and Karkat quickly reaches out to grasp the grooved bone hilt in his hand, swinging it in a wide arc and catching the female troll across the lip. She hisses, stumbling back into her friend and sending them both toppling back against the slimy cavern walls, kicking up the bed of soft grass and maggots beneath their three-toed feet.

While they are distracted, Karkat busily cuts at the spider silk cocoon that he is trapped in, finding difficulty in slicing through the sticky threads. He catches a finger on the sharp blade in his panic, a trickle of bright red blood running along his wrist, but he ignores the stinging pain in favor of cutting through his bindings. His breathing is loud and insistent in his ears.

As soon as enough of the threads are cut loose, he begins to slip sluggishly downwards, most of his upper torso hanging out of the cocoon. Karkat wriggles around, trying to avoid landing on anything important when he hits the ground with an 'oof'. He scrambles to his feet just in time to avoid being hit by a swiping claw, and grunts at the dull pain that aches through his shoulder. His eyes land on the markings that are keeping Kanaya contained, and in a desperate move he half-stumbles towards them, one of the green beasts lurching past him and growling when they miss.

He scuffs through the intricate lines of blood with his sneakers, wrinkling his nose at the coppery smell, and in an instant Kanaya has moved to stand between him and the advancing trolls. The pair of green-skinned creatures go absolutely still, eyes trained on the glinting blade in Kanaya's hand. Almost lazily, she strides towards them, the metal in her hand wreathed in heavenly fire; the trolls shy away from the flickering flames like over-grown sewer rats.

The angel casts a look over her shoulder at him, eyes shining an unnaturally bright shade of green and wisps of whitish-blue licking around them. "Locate the exit. I will follow shortly." As Karkat watches, she slowly turns her head back around to size-up her foes, her demeanor cool and collected.

Head bobbing quickly in a nod, Karkat heads through the narrow passageway that he had seen the girl take earlier. There are piles of dark dirt and gnawed bones littered about, as well as other disgusting things that Karkat does not want to think much on, and he steps carefully around and over them. Several large, meaty earthworms and a few caecilians writhe violently under his sneakers. But then, there is white sunlight breaking through a narrow hole in the ceiling, a long chute covered sparsely with nut-brown leaves and twigs. Looking around, Karkat doesn't see any kind of ladder or footholds, and he sends a concerned look back in Kanaya's direction. Broken gurgles and shouts meet his ears, and so he nervously looks back up through what could have been his ticket to fresh air.

Only to see that, now, there is someone coming down the chute. He has no idea of how they are managing to do that, but assumes that maybe it's magic. They do look like they are floating slowly downwards, anyway, and Karkat once again looks fleetingly back towards where the sounds of battle are coming from. When he looks back, the teenaged girl from before is floating about a foot above the ground. Her head jerks around towards him, Excorcist-style, presumably after hearing the caterwaul in the other section of the caves.

Then, her eyes land on him. Her feet plant themselves flat on the ground. "How did you get out?" She asks, brown eyes narrowing dangerously as she jabs a finger at him.

Karkat's eyes flit to the dagger in his hand, lightly stained with inky black blood, and then back up into her clearly ticked off face. He laughs, a pinch hysterical.

The girl raises an arm, the charms and bracelets there tinkling together faintly. Her hand constricts, fingers twitching strangely in the air as her eyes zero in on him. Her lips part as if about to utter some dreadful curse, but she is cut off by the fist that sails into her head. A fist that is green, clawed, and attached to nothing but what remains of an arm that has clearly been forcibly removed.

Karkat turns to see Kanaya standing a distance behind him, looking contemplatively up through what Karkat has now humorously dubbed 'the murder hole'. Then, she inclines her head to gaze down at the girl who is trying to sit up from the floor, rubbing at her bruised cheek and groaning.

In what seems like an instant, Kanaya has the witch held against the wall by her throat. "Where are they?" she snarls, face nearly an inch away from the struggling girl's. Karkat is still looking at the dismembered limb that is laying on the floor, blood slopping out from one end. Casting a hurried glance at Kanaya, he nudges it with his foot.

The witch grapples at Kanaya's hands around her throat, digging her dirty nails into any patch of bare skin she finds. This proves to be ineffectual. "I don't know who you're talking about," the stringy-haired girl spits in Kanaya's face, which also doesn't garner much of a reaction. Karkat presses the toe of his sneaker down on the limb, sticking his tongue out in disgust when it makes a terrible squishing noise. Kanaya's wrathful eyes shift to him for nearly half of a second, which is all the time Karkat needs to quickly pull his foot away and begin whistling unassumingly.

Kanaya's glare returns to the witch. "You know exactly who I am talking about." Her grip on the girl's throat tightens by a fraction, and the girl gasps for air around her constricted windpipe.

"Alright! Alright," she gargles, desperately, her cheeks reddening exponentially. "There's a few still hanging around the town up north. Around three. Bunch of feather-brained idiots, not noticing the ones I've picked off with a group so small," there's an awkward pause where she blinks dumbly up at Kanaya, as if realizing just who she is talking to. "Uh, I mean, yeah."

Without further ado, Kanaya drops the girl, who sputters and gags as she hits the ground. Then, putting two fingers to Karkat's temple, Kanaya flies them out of the soggy murder hole in a whoosh of displaced air.

The fresh air and sunlight is a welcome change, Karkat thinks.

☼☼☼

Rose rises to her feet, staggering towards the wall and leaning against it for much-needed support. Her wrist hurts somewhat, and she hisses through her teeth when her fingers graze over it, but she should live. That is, if she can evade the rest of the security guards who are after her.

Speaking of which, there are footsteps coming from above as well as below her, now. Her head whips around, whitish-blond hair frizzing up in places from the cold sweat behind her ears and along her spine. The guard approaching from below is the one she catches sight of first, but she soon wishes that she hadn't.

The man appears normal at first, but he is running at a speed that she would think of as nigh unachievable by a man of such a portly stature, his feet pounding loudly across the concrete steps. Then, he tosses his head back, a large, gaping mouth replacing all of his facial features, and Rose blanches. There are coils of welled-up skin surrounding the maw, which is filled with dagger-like, serrated teeth that seems like it should belong to some creature of the deep rather than a man. Two tongues, or perhaps a split one, thrash about wildly, as if scenting the air for her much like a snake might. Black goo trails down from the corners of his mouth, staining his once-pristine shirt collar.

Just as he is upon her, mouth opening wide, saliva dripping and an enormous, winding throat about to swallow her whole, Rose executes a flawless Youth Roll and dodges around him. Or, maybe it should be called a Sprightly Semi-Adult Roll, for she has been out of high school for a long time now. Nevertheless, starting quickly down the steps and feeling sharp, spider's web aches travel up through her legs, Rose is quite literally on a roll. The thing that is pursuing her is still after her, sure, but Rose is confident that she can reach the parking garage before it can.

Her wrist burns as she throws open the metal door leading to where the company's employees are parked, and Rose looks desperately around for her bicycle. Of all the times to regret her choice to avoid spending money on gas and upkeep. With a sinking feeling, as well as with her heart pounding furiously in her breast, she realizes that her bike has been taken, the lock still clamped to the rack but dangling precariously. Probably by some clever fellow with pliers and an agenda separate from her own.

Then, her eyes land on a sleek, black vehicle not too far from where she is standing. It doesn't seem to have much wear and tear despite being obviously upwards of sixty years old, either, so she considers it a prime candidate for car-jackery. When she rushes over and tries the door, Rose finds that it isn't even locked, and that the keys are still inside, having been thrown haphazardly across a plush seat.

Footsteps sound from behind her, echoing through the wide underground garage, occasionally scratching against discarded candy wrappers. Rose slides across into the driver seat and jams the key inside of the ignition, eyeing the cassette player as she goes. She notes, absently, that the vehicle smells of sulfur. Just as the engine began to emit a smooth purr, a _Best of Queen_ tape started playing uproariously, startling Rose somewhat until she realized where the noise was coming from. Her eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, watching two dark figures approaching quickly.

Slamming her foot on the gas, Rose pealed out of there like a flap of skin from a sunburnt swimmer's back.

Somewhere inside of the building, while sampling a cake on the sly, a demon in sunglasses felt a sudden cold chill come over him. He immediately put the cake back.

☼☼☼

Pamela Barnes wakes up.

She can still see, just as she had been able to in her Heaven. It is good to know that what happens in Heaven doesn't actually stay in Heaven, to say the least, and that the place bears no similarity to Vegas. That would just be too hilarious to keep to herself, and random people on the street might find her all the crazier for bringing it up in idle conversation.

The room around her is ensconced in darkness, dull tones of dust covering the furniture and speckling the moonlight that wafts in through the cracked window. A breeze stirs through the air and rustles the curtains and papers strewn about the carpeted floor as Pamela takes in her former home. Or, maybe, if that angel Joshua is to be believed, the place that is still very much her own. She grins.

Pamela clears the table, searching for something vital to her mission. An important relic, older than time itself, maybe even electricity, and yellowed by age.

Unearthing the phonebook, the psychic calls in to order a cheese pizza. She's expecting a handful of guests, after all.

☼☼☼

\-- flamingSword [FS] has joined the chat! -- 

\-- repellentCrown [RC] has joined the chat! -- 

\-- malnourishedScales [MS] has joined the chat! -- 

\-- DEATH [DEATH] has joined the chat! --

FS: I'm too hot!  
RC: (hot damn)  
MS: Called a police and a fireman.  
FS: I'm too hot!  
DEATH: (HOT DAMN.)  
MS: Make a dragon wanna retire man.  
FS: I'm too hot!  
MS: (Hot damn.)  
RC: say my name you know who i am  
FS: I'm too hot!  
DEATH: (HOT DAMN.)  
MS: Am I bad 'bout that money, break it down.  
FS: Girls hit your hallelujah! (Whoo!)  
RC: girls hit your hallelujah (whoo)  
MS: Girls hit your hallelujah. (Whoo.)  
FS: 'Cause uptown funk gon' give it to you!  
RC: 'cause uptown funk gon' give it to you  
MS: 'Cause uptown funk gon' give it to you.  
DEATH: SATURDAY NIGHT AND WE IN THE SPOT.

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] has joined the chat! --

GG: dont believe me just watch!!

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] has left the chat! --

FS: Come on!  
FS: Wait, who was that?  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *(Aziraphale would agree!)
> 
> I might add in two more *human* characters after this. No more trolls, though. I don't plan on adding too many of them, I have to borrow their text colors for other characters! If you didn't notice, Pollution had Tavros's, War had Aradia's, and Famine had Nepeta's. All of the Leviathans will have black as their text color.
> 
> Crowley's going to show up in the next chapter. And yes, everyone gets a Pesterchum. EVERYONE.


	5. How Difficult It Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "TG: lol rose theres a duck of hell in our livin room"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve added a playlist to the first chapter’s notes if you want to check that out.
> 
> Here we go, everyone. About 25,000 words just for you. The pesterlogs are prolly a bit wonky, sorry about that.
> 
> ALSO I KIND OF LIED ABOUT ONLY ADDING A FEW MORE HOMESTUCK CHARACTERS, THERE ARE MORE
> 
> I ACTUALLY REALLY LIKED THIS CHAPTER ARE YOU READY LET’S GO

The sky was just a tad misty over the Garden of Eden, the clouds dull-colored and threatening a neat shower of rain. A brisk wind swept across the fronds of glossy green plants, causing them to sway and fold with each rustling gust of air.

At the top of a hill overlooking it all, two angels stood face to face in heaven before the retreating sun. Their feathers trembled against the blustery weather; the sweet remaining light shivered and larked on the slopes that stretched out below.

“Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, Gadreel,” the angel of the Eastern Gate said to the angel of the Western Gate, frowning all the while. “You’ve really done it this time.”

Gadreel heaved a heavy sigh. “I know that already, Aziraphale.”

The two angels were silent for a moment longer, though they listened uneasily to the sound of pattering rain in the distant gloaming, sapping all traces of sunlight out of the land.

“We’ve just got to look on the bright side of things from now on, I suppose,” Aziraphale murmured finally, trying to make light of their positively rotten day. “I mean, at least it was only Lilith.”

Of course, the corruption doesn’t stop with Lilith. Humans are charged with dreams and passion and all sorts of things that angels generally lack, their worldly souls as volatile as the churning sea itself, and so it isn’t much of a bombshell when it happens again. 

And again.

And yet again.

In hindsight, there really should have been some more reliable angels posted at the Garden’s gates.

☼☼☼

The ocean was magnificent, dark and deep. Almost ninety percent of it remained unexplored, at least by humans, and that was just the way she liked it.

It was extremely cold and pressurized, deep within the bowels of the remotest trenches and furrows. Every moment spent there was a hardship; a subterranean suffering.

Creatures with eyes black as pitch and other times ghostly white lurked there, thriving without a speck of sunlight to illuminate their way. Their skin was transparent, all of their insides and prickle-thin bones writhing and oscillating through the gloom. Strange whorls of skin and flesh extended outward from their bodies, adaptations that were mostly unheard of above the photic zone.

Only one thought circulated through their minds, a hindbrain instinct that emerges in all living things at one point or another; _consume._

Her Imperious Condescension had never been afraid of those beasts. Why would she fear them, those unintelligent, helpless creatures lazing about by deep sea vents, aching for a sliver of warmth and a nibble of fare from the surface? Those lowly creatures with excesses of vestigial matter and impractical jaw bones?

No, she was far more apprehensive about what waited below that, beneath where her feet just barely grazed against the massive crests of subsurface landforms and expanses of saw-toothed rock.

As she sank ever deeper, fins splayed outwards and the coiled streaks along her cat suit gleaming a luminous fuchsia in the gloom, she listened to the inharmonious murmurs coming from beneath the seafloor.

It was not an outer god; at least, she did not think so. There was nothing inconceivably enormous about the whispering, although it did seem likely that there was a yawning cavern there which housed the collection of strange primordial beings that she had been able to sense so acutely. 

That large dimension, chock-full with all sorts of slavering and hungry things, could potentially act as a gateway for a creature from the Furthest Ring. While there was powerful magic keeping it mostly shut, she did not doubt that there would eventually be a tear.

Hair heavy with brine and seaweed after a fleeting deep-sea dip, she still remembered the feeling of something like terror sliding down her spine.

It was _exhilarating_.

☼☼☼

She went generally by the surname of English, insisting only that her most trusted personnel referred to her as ‘Grandma’, despite her relatively young age of fifty-six. Her hair was a curtain of midnight black when she first brought her company into being, the fruit of all her endeavors and daydreams: Project Astraea.

As the years rolled sluggishly by, Grandma English began to take an interest in things other than tech and robotics, and she could often be found paging through massive weather-beaten books filled with fairy tales and folklore. Her interest soon turned into something like obsession, leading to several outlandish rumors about a secret society having been founded by the swiftly-aging CEO of Astraea. 

As the final strands of snowy white began to sink into her hair, she abruptly vanished. Seemingly off the face of the earth.

Without its founder, her company soon fell into disarray and crumbled into dust, swiftly ground down under Betty Crocker’s heels. There were those who asked, not a bit desperately, where the creator of the company might have gone. No one would know for many years.

That is, until a mysterious amount of cash appeared on the doorstep of a bunker in Roswell, New Mexico. The door’s threshold was engraved with an Aquarian Star.

 ~~Magician~~ _scientist_ and connoisseur of all things ~~occult~~ _science-y_ Eridan Ampora promptly tripped over the cold hard cash on his way out the door, landing with a muffled ‘oof’ in the sun-baked New Mexican dirt. 

He angled his head to glare at whatever had tripped him up only to find an incredibly unassuming cardboard box tangled up in his pant legs. Or, it would have been unassuming if it weren’t for the massive amount of green dollar bills strewn about it.

A simple note was attached to the box containing the money with a frayed string. It read as thus:

“there is still something worth fighting for!”

Unwilling to let such a wonderful opportunity slip though his fingers, Ampora merrily stuffed all of the cash into his pockets and made off over the proverbial sunset with it.

☼☼☼

The actual Richard “Dick” Roman first encountered Betty Crocker during a business rendezvous between their two companies. 

They were conferring over simple advertising, of all things: the Crocker woman wanted to partner with his enterprise as swiftly and efficiently as possible, most likely to stake her claim in yet another susceptible trade under the guise of offering advice.

It was a little Machiavellian, how quickly she latched onto him, his business, and his mounting success. Almost like a leech, prickly teeth sticking into him and all.

She chose to invite him over to her private estate to discuss their partnership, a sprawling landscape with trim green lawns and a surrounding shade of magnolia trees. Ornamental gardens and expanses of scenery full of warmth, light, and sun-stippled ground made up the ideal image; a placid blue pond dipped over to the side, a serene contrast in contradiction of the gritty swampland that lay beyond it.

The home itself was not imposing or especially ominous. It was actually rather short and squat, with commonplace wooden siding, flower pots placed upon each of the front steps, and a porch swing situated under the cool shade of the veranda. An old, well-furnished family mansion.

All of the curtains were drawn over the home’s windows, blocking the inside from view, and Dick peered curiously at them as his sleek black limousine pulled up the drive. The gravel slid and bled rainwater underneath his shoes as he stepped out of the car and made his way up to the red-painted door.

The foyer he then entered was sparsely decorated, golden accents lingering here and there. White marble tiles clicked beneath his shoes until he tread across the trim carpet.

The most noticeable feature of the home was the recurrent notes of Crocker red lingering about: it was in the carpet, the picture frames, the decorative vases, and even the buds of the tulips settled upon an inconspicuous side table. It was almost as if the owner of the home wanted to ensure that any visitors knew just _whom_ they were visiting at all times. Either that or she was merely excessively vain.

He took a seat on a plush white couch in the sitting room, attended by tea sets and neat little china cups. Crocker lounged across from him, sipping languidly at her drink. All of her wondrous wealth of hair played about her sides, her long nails grazing the sides of her teacup.

They spoke in hushed tones about brand names and catchy phrases, and she had the most ferocious laugh he thought he had ever heard, like a jaguar’s purr before it latches onto the delicate neck of a dewy-eyed baby deer.

There was a rustling from the entrance hall. Dick turned his head just in time to see a little girl scamper past, a whispering of black curls, bright sapphire eyes and bowed red ribbons. Like a ghost, the doll in the white petticoat and dainty blue apron had disappeared before he even had the time to fully process just who he had seen.

When he turned back around to face Crocker, a question burning on his tongue, he saw that her smile was frozen and sharp eyebrows lowered. Her pupils fixated and swerved, almost as if she were tracking movement through the floral wallpaper with her eyes.

He discreetly cleared his throat. Her gaze focused on him, sly and slow and ever so deliberate.

“Have a cupcake,” she said, lips the color of blood and teeth bared in a predatory grin that was far, _far_ too friendly. It was the kind of smile that bred unease and fear in its selected victim, a grin that concealed something much more menacing.

It didn’t sound like an offer. Dick speedily obeyed, nearly upsetting the fine bone china in the process.

The cupcake was tooth-achingly sweet, a dollop of sugary icing on the top perfectly bringing out the moistness of the soft cake. A warm, fumbling cloud immediately settled at the forefront of his mind, like the heavy-eyed fog created by chloroform.

He never was quite able to remember the rest of that little get-together.

\---

The next time the Condesce met Dick Roman, she was tempted to bring out her culling fork right then and there. 

No more was the bottom feeder that had let her take great portions of his profits without a fuss, or the enflamed barnacle that had only survived on her less significant strains of company resources, clinging fast to her side against the strong current.

No, the man— if he was indeed still that— who later strolled into her headquarters was no longer as floundering as she had anticipated, _desired_ him to be. His back was smooth black, his underbelly a deceptively soft white; his smile belied a much more treacherous bite.

“Have a cupcake,” the Crocker woman purred, full lips quirked up into an audacious smile. Clever and lustrous gold. Venomous fuchsia.

The other Dick Roman, the one who wasn’t very much dead at the time, grinned slyly at her, in the way an apex predator might assess its options for dinner. A shark’s grin, pointy and wide, right before it devours a fish whole.

 _Oh yes_ , He thought, for Leviathan are not as prey to memory alteration or manipulation as humans are. _Two can play at this game._

“How’s your heiress?” he drawled, dark eyes full and unfathomable, a shadowy beast in an equally shadowy suit.

The startled look on her face was unquestionably just as sugary sweet as any cake she could have dared to shove under his nose.

☼☼☼

Several years ago, but not many, Aziraphale had been sitting up in his shop, the gentle splendor of silence presiding over the street outside. He was occupied with his reading, for there was no one in the store to run off at the moment.

This wasn't an uncommon activity for Aziraphale. In fact, he quite liked to read. This was probably why he was a rare book dealer, had owned a book shop for some time, and never actually allowed for anyone to purchase any of his books out of jealous guardianship. You get the picture.

He was settled comfortably at the counter, reading some boring old book that probably no one but he could recall the name of some years after the fact. The angel hummed faintly under his breath as he turned to the next page, blue eyes half-lidded and not even the noise from the street outside souring his pleasant mood. A comfortable seat and a nice book make for a happy angel. Unless that angel is more into smiting things and toting around swords, that is.

Aziraphale was so wrapped up in his book that he didn't even realize that a customer had entered the shop until the tell-tale jingling of bells. However, unwilling to part from the story the words held, he only spared a brief glance up to make sure it wasn't Crowley come to pester him, as per usual.

A young woman stood awkwardly just inside the door, shuffling in that particular way all shoppers do when they are unsure of what they need or believe that they may have entered the wrong store after all. 

With a gentle 'harrumph', Aziraphale turned his attention back to the thick tome in his hands, deciding to ignore her unless spoken to directly. It seemed unlikely that she would buy anything, what with how faintly puzzled she looked. Perhaps she would just turn right back around and go on her merry way after realizing this.

Just as he began to become enraptured in the story once more, vaguely aware of the girl moseying along the shelves in his peripheral vision, he was surprised when he began to hear a faint scratching sound, like the sound a hamster might make in the dead of the night when everyone is trying to sleep. Or, because it was highly unlikely that he had any unwelcome rodents in his shop, a pencil scrabbling across paper.

This caught Aziraphale's attention, for while he doubted that a proper young lady would vandalize one of his books, the dismaying chance was still there. 

Eyes narrowing, the angel placed his book upon the counter with a soft 'thump', which was enough to give the girl cause to look up and over her shoulder at him.

The first thing he noticed about her was her eyes. They were a curious, sparkling blue, with red-rimmed glasses balanced precariously on her nose. Her black hair was curled but slightly askew, the strands sticking up in odd places most likely because of the brisk breeze tousling it while she was out on the pavement. She wore a simple white shirt accented with blue sleeves and a rather plain pair grey pants. On the top of her head, a ridiculous grey fedora teetered to the side.

She was as cute as a button.*

"Oh!" she said almost in a whisper, covering her mouth with a hand and looking very embarrassed. Her arms shifted, revealing a notebook resting at the crook of her elbow, and an open book splayed across the shelf. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief; she hadn't done any damage to the book itself.

Turning fully towards him, she began to try and explain herself, flustered. "I'm very sorry, I was just going to take a few notes and put it right back. You see, I had been looking for this rare cookbook for a while now, because I heard it had a wonderful recipe for gingerbread! But, I haven't yet received any funds from my great, great grandmother, coming over here from America and, well..." she trailed off, looking sheepish.

She peered worriedly at him, mouth twisting with guilt as if expecting to be harshly reprimanded or made to cough up payment. However, in all truth she had no reason to be concerned at all; Aziraphale was ecstatic about this news. 

At long last, someone sensible who wouldn't try to steal a book away from him and use it for nothing more than a paperweight or for ‘thought-provoking’ decoration. Why, he'd hardly have to lift a finger; she would just let herself out! 

Oh, if only light would shine down from the heavens and bless her dear heart!

Smiling widely at her and with goodwill written all over his face, Aziraphale once again picked up his book. "That's quite alright, dear. Write down whatever you need, but please try not to crinkle the spine while you're at it. That's a first edition, mind you."

The girl had thanked him profusely, surprised by his generosity, and had turned back to take more notes with the utmost vigor possible for such a job.

They spent a good half hour in relative silence before the girl replaced the book on its shelf. She walked over to his counter, careful not to disturb him too much, and waited patiently until he finally looked up at her.

"Thank you," she told him, giving him a buck-toothed grin. She paused, as if not sure how to proceed, and then timidly extended a hand towards him. The angel gazed at her hand quizzically. "My name is Jane Crocker, what's yours?"

"Aziraphale," he blurted without thinking, mentally punching himself in the face as soon as his genuine name left his mouth. Cringing slightly, he haltingly continued. "What I meant to say was, Mr. Fell. Yes, that's the one."

Jane giggled at him, most likely declaring him a lunatic in the safety of her own mind, and clumsily adjusted the fedora on her head until it was left even more askew than it was before. 

"Alrighty then, Mr. Fell. It was nice meeting you, have a lovely afternoon!" And with that, she tucked her notebook under an arm, and left out the door with only a distinct chime following after her.

"What a lovely young lady," Aziraphale remarked to his empty book shop, returning his gaze to his book. Only, it isn't as he had left it. No, there was rather unexpectedly a slightly-wrinkled piece of paper jutting out from the crease in between the pages. 

A puzzled expression crinkling his brow, Aziraphale unfolded the paper and adjusted his glasses, squinting skeptically at it. As he read, a delighted smile tugged at his lips.

"Dear Mr. Bookshop Owner, 

I hope this note finds you well! I figured that it would be a good thing to have someone with such a superb knowledge of the written word to be in cahoots with, and so I have attached my chumhandle! You can contact me any time you wish, and reserve the right to toss this away right now while you still can. I must warn you, I am an expert prankster!

Sincerely,

gutsyGumshoe

"

☼☼☼

The thing about Roxy Lalonde was that no one, not even the leader of the Leviathans himself, could get a read on her. It was immensely frustrating, but also intriguing. This was regrettable for Miss Lalonde.

She worked for a time as an IT specialist alongside Charlie Bradbury, another human who bore a similar ‘spark’ of unsurpassable skill, namely with electronics. The woman would commonly be seen walking around in a sharply-accented lab coat, seemingly flirting with anyone and everyone where possible. She often drank gin while on the clock.

To top it all off, Roxy Lalonde was absolutely _ridiculous_ , sharing an almost laughable interest in total fakey-fake things such as magic and wizards with Bradbury. Her behavior was rather irresponsible and she had a tendency to handle correspondences at work in a manner than was _definitely_ not serious at all, often using shorthand and emoticons to express her distaste with assignments or simply to, as some of her coworkers expected, piss the Boss Man off.

All of these things amounted to Lalonde being dismissed as a less than significant factor in the grand scheme of things, although she was still kept around for her competence with software design and program development despite her many, _many_ shortcomings. At least she was always right on time with diagnostics reports and research obligations, her employer reasoned.

This, as it would turn out, was a dire mistake. Because fate does some pretty nasty things to many people, especially those who deserve to have nasty things done to them. Roxy Lalonde would be the catalyst for one of those nasty things, although she could never have known it.

It was a lovely autumn day. The leaves were turning colors, all different hues of red and yellow and a profound purplish rust mingling together on the sidewalk, waiting to be easily crinkled underfoot. A delightful wash of color reflected on the glass panes of the skyscrapers that lined the busy street, colossal against the pinks and soft blues of the predawn sky.

Dressed in her crisp white lab coat, Roxy Lalonde breezed through the glassy doors of Richard Roman Enterprises and made her way towards the elevator, sporting an enormous thermos of black coffee on one arm and a box of doughnuts upon the other. She smiled brightly at most everyone on her way in, waving her otherwise-engaged hands to the best of her ability at even the people she didn’t recognize. Her black pumps clicked loudly against the floor; the bland artificial lights made her eyes practically _sparkle_.

Settling inside of the elevator, Roxy jiggled her head to herself, going over the day’s engagements and idly adjusting the items in her grip. She had a couple thousand e-mails piling up in her inbox, but Roxy had a distinct feeling that they were probably just social media notifications. Still, she would have to page through them all to make sure there wasn’t something important amongst the piles of throwaway nonsense.

The elevator stopped on her floor with a shrill ‘ _ding!_ ’. Roxy stepped out and ambled in the general direction of her cubicle, canting a hip to the side in an awkward attempt to balance out the weight in her arms as she walked.

A wave of ginger hair flounced about in her peripheral vision and took the cumbersome box of doughnuts away, and as Roxy settled into her cubicle she could hear Charlie making appreciative noises at her selection of sugary pastries. They had been jostled about during the ride in, and so they would undoubtedly be a frosted, crème-filled mess.

“Oh my gosh!” her coworker exclaimed, crowing again with delight as she unearthed a chocolate-frosted long john doughnut with orange and black sprinkles scattered across it for the up-and-coming Halloween. 

She promptly shoved a good portion of the pastry into her mouth with no care for decorum, making tremendously ecstatic sounds.

Roxy smiled proudly to herself and booted up her computer. It was one of those space-agey ones that most big businesses seemed to be latching onto, with the tiny, flat keys and inscrutable icons. She much preferred her laptop at home, but that Frankenstein’s monster of hardware bits wasn’t quite cut out for the glitz and glam of her workplace. It would have to do.

Opening her e-mail application, Roxy’s brows furrowed as she attempted to pick through the masses of spam and random messages littering her inbox, one hand scrolling down with the mouse and another blindly feeling for a doughnut. Charlie helpfully shoved the box within her reach.

_Facebook notifications, something from her internet provider about something else she couldn’t care less about, another message from the Boss Man asking her out to dinner— lmfao wat, another message from Dirk-a-dirk about how she should keep putting salt on her windows to keep out slugs and shit, Roxy. Do you think I would lie to you about the impending slug invasion on your home? and—_

Suddenly, Roxy squawked at an e-mail from a couple of days ago, which requested intel on how things were going with a new Turducken recipe in Biggerson’s restaurants. She scrabbled around on her desk, searching for the file folder talking about general reception of the sandwich meat which was actually _super great_ , yay team, and then shouted something indiscernible as Standard English at Charlie on her way out.

Her heels clipped and clopped on the way to the elevator. Once inside, Roxy quickly tried to get her breathing under control, hands fumbling shakily as she smoothed down her trim white skirt and picked at her hair and lipstick in the elevator’s metallic reflection. She pressed the button that would take her down to one of the lower floors, careful not to crinkle the file clenched between her fingers. The wait was a long and unpleasant one.

Finally she reached the desired floor and nearly sprinted out from between the just-opened doors, only to realize that she had no idea of where she was supposed to be headed. There wasn’t a soul in sight; the slate grey wallpaper shone mockingly at her.

Only awkwardly dallying around for a moment longer, Roxy set off in a random direction in the hopes of potentially reaching her destination.

Fifteen minutes later saw Roxy seething in frustration at her apparent inability to find her journey's end.

“Ugh,” she groused to herself, and walked into what looked like a copy room to hopefully make certain of her location with one of those helpful laminated maps to be used in case of an emergency. 

There wasn’t a map in the room. In fact, Roxy became mostly and rather instantaneously unconcerned about the map because of what she saw in that room. It didn’t _seem_ to be a very remarkable room, what with its limited décor, laughable feng shui, flaking wallpaper and lack of tastefully-placed houseplants, but Roxy wasn’t fooled.

She wasn’t duped by any of that total ordinariness because at the center of the room was a glass display case, like one in a jeweler’s shop. Inside of that display case was an itty-bitty little bead of black goo, so small that she almost couldn’t see it. Nothing more, nothing less.

An electric bulb hung overhead from a long electrical cable, similar to those used to incubate eggs. It shone mightily down upon the little speck of black, angrily glinting against the sides of the case.

Roxy went over to the case and leaned over it, feeling much like one of those people in horror movies who do something incredibly stupid like walk over to an unfamiliar glass case to gaze uncomprehendingly at droplets of black goo. She even tapped the glass to mix it up a little.

The goo reacted to the touch, jerking around as if struck horribly by the vibrations produced. Little strains of it arched out, wisps of it curving out into a galaxy-like shape sort of comparable to the underside of an octopus, and budding larger than she would have originally thought possible.

She was unpleasantly reminded of lacerated blood vessels and certain fictional symbiotic organisms that flourished in the form of sentient black liquid.

Recoiling in surprise, Roxy withdrew her hand from the glass. The fluid inside immediately ebbed and again settled into a single droplet of unresponsive goop.

This only served to further compound her curiosity, and so Roxy found herself again rapping against the glass, only this time with a lot more care towards the thing inside’s apparent sensitivity. 

As expected the living fluid reacted, eddying to all different corners of the case, as if unsure of which corner to retreat into. Veins of it wound together like lace, quivering and yearning towards the bulb of the ceiling light.

“Neat,” Roxy said of the thing in the case, voice soft in wonder. “What _are_ you, though?”

The goo didn’t seem to have an answer for her, although it appeared to languish under her attention just as it had with the drumming of the glass. Roxy watched it swivel around for a moment longer before deciding that it seemed harmless enough—certainly not flesh-eating or parasitic, at any rate, and so her gaze slid to the padlock that had the case sealed tightly shut.

“Guess I ought to spring you outta this dump, huh?” Roxy hummed in question, slipping a pin out of her hair and jabbing it into the reset slot, barely the size of the tiniest of nicks. After a few seconds of fiddling with it, the lock came undone with a satisfying, metallic ‘click!’

Without further ado, the glass box’s lid was boosted upwards by Lalonde. The black organism inside immediately fled its trappings, startling the woman into dropping the lid with a loud clattering din as it landed upon the tile floor with a juicy plop. It bubbled and gurgled a tad, but otherwise didn’t move much after that.

Feeling mightily adventurous, Roxy stooped down so that she was crouching over the goop, her heels shifting inelegantly below her and giving her heels something stroppy and painful to protest against. She didn’t waste any time, dabbing a finger against the runny substance now shifting lazily against the floor. It felt cool to the touch and strangely soft, akin to magma right before it scorches off the offending limb.

In between one blink and the next, the black substance shifted upwards, rapidly expanding until it stood at about a third of her size. As Roxy squinted at it, the once formless goop rose up and took on a vaguely-humanoid shape. The black receded, folding back like flickering ash on a burning newspaper.

A young girl peered up at her, lilac eyes inquisitive and lips pursed. Her hair was short and light-colored like Roxy’s own, and her facial features held a striking similarity as well, only with a tiny bit of added baby fat to her rounded cheeks.

The girl tilted her head at Roxy, snuffling at her. “You are not Leviathan.”

“Naw,” Roxy replied, wide-eyed and baffled. “’m Roxy.” 

The goo child seemed to take this information in, standing utterly still and quiet as a mouse. She gazed into one corner of the room for a moment, considering, and then again looked to Roxy. 

The young girl hesitated before speaking again, apparently struggling to overcome some wavering emotion. “Do you know where I might find something to eat?” She seemed very distressed. 

When Roxy answered with a nod, the girl appeared to relax immensely, shoulders slackening and concerned lines smoothing over. “You got a name?” Roxy asked, spontaneously taking the girl’s hand into her own.

The girl stared at her face and hand in turn. “No.”

“Well, that’s no good. I’ve got to have something to call you,” Roxy frowned, thinking it over for a minute before a light bulb flickered to life in her head. Meanwhile, the goo child looked on with interest. “I’ll just call you Rose, then. How’s that sound?”

A furrow creased the child’s brow. Her mouth twisted in thought; Roxy held her breath.

“Okay,” she said, reasonably, nodding in acquiesce. “But only if I get food soon.”

☼☼☼

Dean Winchester raps on the bunker's door with a fist, impatiently waiting for it to be opened.

After a moment of silence and what sounds like incoherent mumbling and scraping, the door opens slowly, just a pinch, before swinging wide after the person behind it sees who it is.

Kevin peers at him blearily, obviously still hard at work translating that damn tablet. Dean brushes roughly past him, Castiel trailing just behind him while Sam pauses to explain things to the dazed prophet.

"Hey, Kevin," he says, gently, and the kid turns to look at him. He looks tired as all heck, it must be killing him to work on translations all day and night. It doesn't seem as if he has been getting a wink of shut-eye.

The prophet's face scrunches up. "Yeah-huh?" he asks.

"We're going on a trip to Illinois to scope out an old friend's house. We got a tip about it earlier today from some guy at the diner, and we'd rather not leave you alone with Crowley. Even if he's all chained up."

"Oh," Kevin grunts, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking down. "Okay. Cool, I guess."

They both look up when a slamming noise and a muffled but definitely enraged 'shit!' echoes down the hall, shooting each other concerned glances. 

Out of nowhere, Dean shrugs past, a stormy scowl on his face. The blue-eyed former angel wanders past as well, obviously perturbed by something. Sam rolls his eyes and goes after them.

While Kevin confusedly watches from the entrance, Sam catches up with Dean, who is shoving various weapons into the back of the Impala with great vehemence. Castiel stands by and stares off into the middle distance in a totally disconcerting manner, occasionally looking despondently at Dean whenever he makes a particularly loud clatter.

"What's up?" Sam asks, trying not to seem accusatory in any way. There's no telling what fresh hell has happened, now.

Shooting his brother a scathing look over his shoulder, Dean goes to slam the trunk shut before thinking better of it and closing it with care. He leans back against the car, rubbing a hand tiredly across his face.

"Crowley's gone."

Sam's jaw drops, and he sends a wide-eyed glance over at Kevin to make sure he hasn't overheard. No sense in sending the poor kid into cardiac arrest. Thankfully, the prophet is so worn out that he can only seem to muster up a suspicious squint in return. Sam breathes a sigh of relief; he hasn't heard a word. "What? How?"

"How the hell should I know?" Dean snaps, before looking almost regretful and then becoming frustrated once again. "Just tell the kid to pack up and let's go, before His Highness comes back with a vengeance. I wanna see what's going on over at Pam's, anyways."

☼☼☼

They are all so excited to be here. The boat they are on tears through the moonlit waves, white foam following in its wake.

Quint Boyce breathes the salty air in deep, dirty blond hair whipping around his face with the wind. His shoulders are tan, only ever having been covered with the barest of shirts during the hotter months, and his muscles are well toned. The steady hum of the motor is great, and they've already got their chum lines all set up.

Every man and woman's at their station, chumming the water with chunks of bloody bluefin tuna heads and pig carcasses. Because they're not here on an ordinary fishing trip. No, they're after sharks. Great whites, to be exact. The captain's expecting there to be a good many out in the deep tonight, and thinks they might be able to get a little diving in.

Being a total adrenaline junkie, Quint's all up for that. His friends Tim and Matt, however, aren't so certain about it. They think it'll be too dangerous, but Quint's done this hundreds of times. And why should this time be any different?

Sure, it is a risky business diving during a damn feeding frenzy, but he has enough experience to know when to bow out. There's hardly anything to be worried about, besides their mouths and muscled tails having a go at him. But he'll be in a metal cage, completely separated from those teeth like knives and white bellies. Totally safe. And if he gets a wicked bite to the arm, no worries. It'll be a quick trip to the hospital and a cool story back at home for the family.

Not much gets to Quint. He's a tough guy, watches most horror movies without even batting an eyelid. His kids think he's invincible, just like they do their momma. She's got a wild edge to her as well; that's how they met, while sky-diving out of the same plane, holding hands as they plummeted through the clouds. They went everywhere together after that, even got married out by some sweet volcanic stream of lava in Hawaii. 

There's not a thing from this world that can tear them down.

But Anita had declined to go with him, saying one of the kids had some kind of important recital that she wanted to go to. He'd only shrugged, packing the rest of his gear for this trip out to sea, and had given her a short peck on the lips while on his way out. 

When he gets back in the morning, she'll probably have made up some coffee for him while waiting for him to get back. He can already smell the crumbled grounds.

There's an excited shout from somewhere behind him, and soon they're spot-lighting the water. The ship's engine cuts off, stuttering to a halt. The only sound that can be heard is the lapping of the water against the boat's sides. Quint gets a chilling little thrill when he sees the massive shapes swimming below, fins peaking up through the surface. 

He rushes to get his gear on, snapping a mask onto his face and ignoring the way the elastic straps pinch and pull at his skin and fine hairs. The wetsuit is dry and warm on the inside, a bit scratchy. His friends eye him from off to the side, muttering to each other under their breath. Whatever. He'll show them that there's nothing to fear in the ocean.

Soon enough he's climbing into the cage, dipping below and into the icy water. The suit suddenly doesn't feel so warm anymore, and Quint wonders when the water got this cold. It was cold before, but this is an almost abnormal level of freezing his tits off. 

Everything's murky and dark until the spotlight settles on him, another one cycling around to find a good-sized, mature shark. All he can see are shadows, large and undulating as they go past. A few circle before breaking off, blunt grey noses jerking around and black eyes keen.

Finally, one comes close enough for him to get a rub on them. He reaches out and skin like sandpaper rubs across his gloves, dragging roughly against the fabric. After that light touch, the shark comes back around, nosing the cage and trying to nibble curiously at it. Quint hoots, and small bubbles surge up from his face.

It is then that every single shark within what he estimates to be a one-mile-radius stills slightly, as if run through with electricity. It's really weird, because for a moment it seems that they've all started drifting, like they're dead or something. All of a sudden, a bunch whip around and move away, long tails moving this way and that. The one near him turns around, body curving towards him for but a moment, its black eyes rolling back into its head until they are almost totally white, before that one also takes off into the blue. 

Away from the boat. Away from the roving lights and bloodied waters.

Quint looks up at the boat, jerking his hands against the metal bars. Someone up there's got to know what went wrong, he's sure of it. But there's not a single drop from the signal line in his ear, not a sound. 

Then, he hears the screaming. The loud, frantic yelling. It's muffled by the water, but the awful noise is definitely coming from above the tide. Shadows move around on board, reaching over the side before being yanked back by something that Quint can't actually see. 

Someone jumps overboard, and he sees that it's Matt by his shape and build. Streaks of some dark fluid trail behind him in the water as he flails against the onslaught of the waves, and it almost looks like it might be blood when the moonlight catches it just right. 

After that, a huge, oblong shadow reaches down from above, spearing Matt through his stomach and making him go deadweight slack. It drags him back onto the boat with ease, oily edges tugging against the metallic sides as it goes.

He realizes that something is awfully wrong too late. Quint peers out into the murky black, a growing pressure of dread filling his chest. It wasn't exactly this dark before, was it? No, it couldn't have been. He could still see the sharks, the bottom of the boat, just a minute ago. Now, there's nothing but the darkness. 

Something pushes against the sides of the cage, sending it spilling over onto its side, and Quint clings to the metal bars to keep from falling out. There's a squishy solid that his hand collides with, and he finds to his horror that his hands are actually stuck to it. As if by glue. He attempts to use his entire weight to pull free from the sticky mess, but with little success.

A metallic clang rings loud in his ears, and the diver twists sideways to look at the cage's top, gloves and skin still painfully attached to the unseen substance. There, a gigantic, indigo-blue beak crunches down on the metal bars, bending them easily. Plumed tentacles thrash behind it, purple and with tiny teeth ringing the suckers. A few reach in and wrap tightly around his face, arms and legs with an almost crushing amount of strength.

No one is around to hear his gurgling, watery screams.

Save for the gigantic horrorterror rearing up and out from a fine, hair-line leak in the universe's plumbing, that is.

☼☼☼

The demon with the sunglasses skips down a few stairs and out into the parking garage. It smelled kind of strange in the stairwell, like saltwater mixed with the heavy tinge of blood, and so he's eager to get out into the fresh air again. Even though he doesn't really even need to breathe. 

It's becoming a bad habit, he supposes.

He has been here on business. Okay, not quite business; it's more as if he's taken leave for a short spell. Going on holiday isn't easy, but Crowley is pretty sure that he can be given some leeway. Even if the powers down below are a tad peeved at him. Anyway, the business here is not so much 'demonic, hellfire' business as 'Crowley has a serious sweet tooth' business. Because a demon with a craving for sugar cannot be expected to carry out his proper tormenting duties without messing up somewhere along the footpath. 

He's heard the horror stories about some poor bloke who got in a whole mess of trouble after he took someone on the racks out for ice cream. Even though, in Crowley's opinion, that teensy incident wasn't all that far from torture. Pistachio is one of the worst flavors, after all. Hell should've gotten in on the ice cream business long ago. He has a distinct feeling that Heaven's already snatched up gelato— for divine reasons of course. Aziraphale's bad about binging on frozen desserts and leaving the evidence all over his shop, so some other angels might be just the same.

As soon as his _very nice_ shoes meet the craggy concrete, however, Crowley knows that something is off. He immediately abandons all trains of thought pertaining to dairy products. The feel of the whole place is suddenly... unnatural, not quite right. A bit dodgy, if someone asked him. He glances sharply around, seeing nothing but candy wrappers and empty parking spaces. But that's just it.

The Bentley's gone. The chills he had been feeling in the building were indicators that someone has been driving _his car_.

In one beat between that moment and the next, Crowley lights up and starts smoking like a chimney. Smoke curls up around his face as he digs through his pockets, searching for that mobile device he secured after sending some dire threats to a random cellphone service provider. He wasn't picky about which one he got, as long as it would last him a while; those businesses are always changing their plans, it would've literally been Hell to get a new one. 

Finally, he finds it. The casing is sleek, slender and black. Waterproof and everything. The orange glow from his cigarrete illuminates the lock screen. Horribly expensive.

With a great deal of force that would have cracked the screen if he hadn't already been using demonic influence on it, Crowley thumbs open the Pesterchum application, his thumb talon clacking loudly against the screen. 

He just hopes Aziraphale will look at his bloody ancient computer and answer him. It always takes the angel at least half a century to type a full sentence. But this is an absolute emergency; there is no time to waste.

\-- flashBastard [FB] has started tempting bookishPrincipality [BP]! --

FB: azzy  


FB: azzy i need your help  


FB: i didn't upgrade that ssssstupid ancient computer of yourssss for you to not ussse it  


FB: ansssswer  


FB: or i will buy you a kindle 

BP: yes dear?  


BP: oh, could you tell me where the caps lock key is, again? i've forgotten what it looks like.

FB: ssseriously, angel  


FB: it's the one next to asdf  


FB: you ssshould dussst thossse keyssss off more often 

BP: Oh, thank you. That's much better.  


BP: What's bothering you, then?

FB: SSSSSSSOMEONE SSSSSSSTOLE THE BENTLEY

BP: Turn off caps, Crowley. There's no need for that nonsense.  
BP: It's rude and takes up too much space.

FB: sssorry  
FB: azzy what do i do

BP: So, someone stole the Bentley? It's gone?  
BP: (It's about time. I was starting to think we would need to have an intervention.)

FB: I CAN SSSTILL READ THAT YOU KNOW

BP: Quit doing that right this instant.

FB: sssorry

BP: Now, let's think about this rationally before we start to panic. Brainstorm a tad.

FB: too late

BP: Have a little faith, Crowley.

FB: no

BP: Suit yourself.  
BP: Could it have been Hastur or Beelzebub? They don't like you, especially after what happened with Adam.

FB: are you kidding  
FB: thossse idiotsss are ssso technologically inept they'd think a toassster wasss equivalent to the uss enterprissse

\-- BEELZEBUB [BEELZEBUB] has joined the chat! --

BEELZEBUB: EXCUZZE YOU.

FB: SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSCREEEEEEee

\-- flashBastard [FB] has smoked out of here! --

BP: Gosh. That didn't go over well.

☼☼☼

Speeding down a busy highway at sixty five miles per hour, Rose feels rather like that one poor sap that ignores the instructions on the microwaveable pizza rolls package. There's a reason it says only to place six rolls to a plate, but _no_ , that wasn't _enough_ for her. Now, she has only a handful of marginally warm and edible sacs filled with cheese and slightly gooey tomato sauce, the rest frozen and nigh inedible.; another two have seemingly gone nuclear.

Which is to say, she isn't feeling very confident about her life choices at this moment.

Sure, her mind had gone a bit haywire and all but dumped most of her motor controls upon impulse alone. It had seemed like a fantastic, divinely-inspired idea at the time. Now, however, she realizes that stealing the car had not been a good idea. This will surely go down in history as one of Rose Lalonde's sub par moments. The sour taste of regret is already on her tongue.

She isn't quite sure _why_ she did this in the first place. It seems foolish now that she is away from those terrifying and possibly eldritch security guards. The car is expensive, assuredly, and there will be Hell to pay when the rightful owner realizes that it is missing, but she just doesn't have that kind of money. 

Rose is aware that she isn't an actress in an action-packed thriller movie. There is no way that she will come out of this dangerous situation on top. She doesn't have the enormous breasts or the swimmer's physique, and she most certainly does not own a motorcycle. 

Who does she know that owns a motorcycle, anyway?

All of a sudden, like light streaming down from the hallowed Heavens above, it dawns on her. _Roxy._ She should contact _Roxy_.

While she isn’t ordinarily so gung-ho about contacting her sister, because Rose has been committed to holding her own against the world for quite a while now, she feels as if this would be a Good Decision. Capitalization intended.

Also, if Rose is recalling correctly, Roxy actually _worked_ for Richard Roman Enterprises at one point. In the IT department, she thinks. If there is anyone out there who could give her advice on what the _actual hell_ is going on, it would be her, because Roxy is all about snooping when things don’t seem quite right.

Rose can only hope that this will be the case.

☼☼☼

Alongside a lonely dusted road, an eighteen-wheeler truck has come to a slightly off-kilter halt, leaning more towards the empty blighted cornfields than the torn up asphalt. The ground is flat and extends for seemingly forever in all directions, the occasional vibrant blue-tailed lizard emerging from a cool tunnel beneath the soil. In the oppressive desert heat, the scrubbed tires begin to let off a powerful rubbery smell.

Behind the wheel of the vehicle, a girl with long curly hair props her feet up on the dash, a shotgun lying across her lap. She idly picks at her fingernails, and then at the many-colored rubber bands strapped around her fingers, mouth twisting downwards slightly as she does so. 

Her hand lingers over one for longer than the rest, a bright neon green band interlaced with a candy red one. Jade Harley sighs, eyes shifting to the leisurely circling buzzards overhead.

The North American Midwest is a long ways away from home for her. In fact, she is pretty sure that this is the furthest she has ever ventured from her comfy Pacific island. It is a little scary, but her grandpa had really wanted her to do this. "Go out and see the world," he had said, all smiles and secrets. 

Sometimes, Jade wonders just what he's hiding, but that could just be her overactive imagination and thirst for adventure talking. It would be just plain ridiculous if he were a super-secret agent spy or something like that!

Besides, surely her grandpa wouldn't keep anything from her. She trusts him more than anyone else in the world, right next to her good pal Bec.

He had also given her a mission before letting her venture out, this neat truck which she has affectionately nicknamed the Golden Yard for its paintjob, as well as a few 'important contacts' for her chumroll. She's only ever peered in on other people's Pesterchum conversations, and only once has she ever dared to speak up. 

Those Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, though. They're a right barrel of laughs! Maybe one day she will get to meet them in person and learn all sorts of neat things from them. Although, grandpa had said that she's a little younger than they are, so they might not be so willing to impart top secret knowledge like her grandpa.

One of the few secrets that grandpa has let slip, or maybe purposefully let her in on, is that there is something big coming up; a third apocalypse. While Jade had no idea about the first two apocalypses, she's pretty concerned about this one! The end of the world can never be a good thing, she's already decided, and it would be really sad to see all of the hard work put into this planet disappear in the blink of an eye. Especially the whales and dolphins. And the rain forests. 

So, naturally, she had asked her grandpa if she could do anything to put a stop to it.

Grandpa had been very surprised by her request to go out and try to save the world. He'd even almost tripped over a pumpkin vine when she'd told him, and he never does that! Becquerel had just been his usual old self, lazily yawning at her and keeping watch. But, boy, had grandpa been flustered.

She remembers that when he had finally given her permission to go to the mainland that he had been certain to order Bec to keep an eye on her. Even though Bec doesn't have any eyes, he normally does a good job of keeping her out of trouble.

Like when she'd almost fallen into a random pit of venomous snakes on the island! She doesn't get why grandpa would want to keep one of those around, anyway, though.

Nevertheless, the neon green rubber band is meant to remind her to call on the fluffy goofball whenever she's at a loss or in danger. And right now, she is definitely confused about what she should be doing!

Sure, grandpa gave her a huuuge notebook to look through for lore on what he wants her to find, but she can't read a lot of this stuff. There are all of these funny, swirling lines and strange symbols that she doesn't understand. 

At first she thought they may have just been grandpa doodling, because he draws blue-skinned stick people running from giant boulders in the margins of his other writings sometimes, but after looking at the writing a little more it became apparent that it was in a different language. One that she can't read! Ugh, _grandpa!_

Groaning, Jade slams her head on the leathery steering wheel, but pulls it back before the wheel can leave a silly red mark on her forehead. That would be just plain unprofessional! Anyways, what she does know about her mission is that she's looking for something called the Spear of Destiny. 

She also knows that grandpa wants her to carry it with her all the way to someplace called Purgatory Creek, which is by all of her grandpa’s accounts located in Texas. From what she has heard of Texas, it has a lot of cattle and a lot of steak. She thinks Bec might like the steak part.

But wait! Becquerel might know something about the weird scribbled letters! He's really smart, for a dog, probably even smarter than some people. She could probably chance calling him, it's not like he'll pick up a random person on the way!

Face lit up with a grin, Jade snaps her fingers, clicks her tongue sharply a few times, and whistles all in quick succession. 

In an instant, there is a flash of green light, yellow and sparky galaxies dancing across her vision, and Becquerel is sitting at attention in the raised area behind her seat's headrest. His white ears stick up, as if listening to something far away, and then he sneakily lies down so he can lick at her face. 

Yuck, dog breath!

Laughing with such force that she snorts a bit, Jade brushes his nose aside, placing both hands on either side of his face and digging her hands into the soft fur behind his ears so she can scratch. Bec continues to try in vain to lick her across the nose, setting her glasses off-kilter and Jade giggles when instead he licks her ear. That tickles! What an unfortunate misfire.

"Bec," she tells him, mock despairingly. "Quit goofing off! I need you to help me read this thing! I don't know what language it's in, and grandpa didn't give me a translation guide to go by."

"It's in Enochian," and _whoa, that voice was totally unexpected_. She'd been expecting something more like Scooby Doo-- she really liked those cartoons when she was younger. It also came from behind her, not from the driver's seat or outside of the window. 

Her hands grip the cool metal of her shotgun as she whirls around, cramped but still able to aim in the small space. Bec grumbles unhelpfully from over her shoulder and Jade gives him a scathing Look that clearly says, 'Hey mister, if you're not going to help me I'll just have to handle things on my own, won't I?’

The man sitting in the passenger seat raises his hands in surrender, palms upturned and clearly unarmed. He looks above suspicion really, certainly not of monstrous origin, but that insight only relaxes her grip on the trigger a tiny bit.

Jade squints at him suspiciously. "How did you even get in here?" She demands, frowning disapprovingly at him. You don't just show up in people's cars unannounced, anyways. That's just plain rude!

"Your dog brought me," he answers, eyes going to Bec. Bec huffs out a wet doggy breath in agreement, a heavy paw landing on her shoulder. Jade shrugs it off, batting him away. She can't pet him now, goshdarnit!

"Why would he—" the man opens his mouth to speak, but something occurs to Jade before he has a chance to even utter the first syllable of what he was about to say. Her entire face lights up with joy as the realization seeps in.

She claps a hand to her mouth with a smack, clearly amazed. "Oh, wait! You're the guy who trimmed my grandpa's hedges, right? He said he'd have Bec drop you off eventually! You're here to help me on my Indiana Jones quest! That's just, wow. Your name's Joshua, yeah? Great, I'm Jade!"

He stares at her, mouth hanging open just slightly. Jade stares back, jittering in her seat with happiness. Finally, he seems to manage to muster up some words for her to go on.

"Your... grandfather?"

Swinging her feet over onto the gas pedals, Jade nods, already getting ready to pull out onto the road again. "Yeah! I'm adopted, though, or at least I'm pretty sure I am, so I don't really know if I have a mom or a dad. Grandpa's told me so much about you— do you like pumpkins? Dogs? Guns? Oh, never mind, it doesn't matter; we'll get to know each other better over the course of our super mega awesome road trip! I'd hate to spoil all the friendship discovery-making, y'know?"

Joshua nods, looking a little shell-shocked. Well, whatever, he'll get over that after a couple hours of driving and talking. At least, Jade hopes he will!

Jade looks over at him. Her cheeks are starting to hurt with how hard she's grinning! "You wouldn't happen to know anything about an artifact called the Spear of Destiny, would you?"

☼☼☼

The island had been beautiful, almost unnaturally so; frost-bound and fiery all at once. While the heat was sticky with humidity lingering in the air, evidence being an abundance of crystal clear dewdrops setting upon leaves and blades of grass, Joshua had seen several odd patches of snow. 

Snow, on a tropical island, beside heady streams of _lava_ pouring out of the side of the mountain that the strange canine was leading him towards. Which, strangely enough, had a tall tower sitting atop it, ringed by soft and splendid cloud formations; at the time, he had been unable to comprehend why someone would wish to build a tower with such impressive height, as the mountain was tall enough on its own. 

He did not have much time to contemplate the builder's state of mind for much longer, however, for the dog reappeared suddenly at his side, latched onto his jacket with a muffled growl, and then rocketed them through space in the blink of an eye. It felt like electric pins and needles traveling all throughout his body, almost like the flight he had been accustomed to as an angel but far more forceful. 

His feet hit solid ground as they took shape again. He thought that he could still feel each individual particle buzzing in the air, electrically vibrant and tingling.

After regaining his footing, Joshua glanced around at their new surroundings, watching as green sparks fizzled and crackled around his shoes and the dog's ear tips. 

All around them were potted plants placed upon clinically white tables, wide windows allowing sunlight to enter and wash over the room. Each pot had a colorful flowering plant of some kind within, and they appeared to be well-tended to. The room was otherwise empty, and was apparently a garden atrium by the look of it.

Before he had a chance to think more on this, however, he was again picked up and launched upwards in a particle-skewering flash of lightning. When he regained his senses, Joshua found himself standing in what seemed to be a child's bedroom. 

A bed covered in sky blue sheets dotted with clouds was neatly made and pushed up against the side of the wall, a few plush toys scattered haphazardly across it. An open window with sunlight streaming in set above it, no glass pane or curtain in sight. Bird and cicada-song filtered in.

All of the walls were covered with a picture of some kind, most depicting colorful animal and human hybrids or other puzzling things. The white-furred dog sat at the center of it all, staring silently down into the opening of a spiral stairwell that presumably led down into the tower's lower levels.

Joshua walked around the room, footsteps soft against the carpet as he carefully picked his way around potted flowering plants and stuffed animals. He noticed several guns leaned against the wall, bits and bobs of mysterious metal equipment scattered around them and poking out from underneath the bed, as if someone had been trying to clean up in a hurry and had shoved them under there in a frantic frenzy.

His eyes landed on what seemed to be some sort of window. Curiosity piqued, the former angel wandered over to stand beside the table it lay upon, leaning over to peer at the panes. 

Unfortunately, there was nothing of interest there. Only blank white space met his gaze, untouched by shadow or dimension. He couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed by this.

There was an electrical splutter from over his shoulder, and Joshua turned to look at the strange canine, only to find that it was no longer there. 

Spinning around quickly to scan the rest of the room, he found the dog sitting next to him, head cocked as if listening to some silent message. Then, mouth plopping open into a huge, slobbery dog grin, the canine had again seized his coat and sent them spiraling across a good portion of the globe.

This is how Joshua finds himself sitting in the passenger seat of a very large vehicle, the hood of the truck shining a sprightly butter yellow in the sunlight, beside a young woman who is bound and determined to secure a friendship with him. He doesn’t have it in him to turn her away.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about an artifact called the Spear of Destiny, would you?" Jade Harley asks, beaming cheerily at him. The dark curls around her face stir with her movements, settling about her shoulders. He notices that she is wearing long sleeves despite the obviously sweltering desert heat.

Joshua _does_ know something about the Spear of Destiny. Namely, it wouldn't be anywhere that they could reach while on this continent. However, the girl has said that her... er, grandfather, had given her a few notes to go off of, and so perhaps it isn't as unattainable as he thinks. Also, he is very interested in what those notes have to offer. It isn't easy to come by an opportunity such as this.

"I might," Joshua answers her, smiling back at her. He holds out a hand. "May I see your grandfather's notes?"

"Sure!" Jade chirps, tossing them at his chest. He scrambles to catch them, finally settling and bringing them closer to his face for a more critical inspection of the words on the page.

As he looks over the lines of scrawled messages and sometimes random squiggly marks, Joshua's eyebrows climb higher. And higher. And even higher, almost all the way up to his hairline.

"These are... very strange," he says. That's not even the half of it, though. These notes, which seemed complex and as if they might bely some secretive code from afar, are actually more akin to a scribbled layout for a story. There are lists of locations, objects and people which seem to show no correlation to one another at all. Some are connected by lines. Others by arrows, like the kind of diagram that might be used to portray the natural food chain in an ecosystem.

"I know, right?" Jade laments, reaching back to pet her canine friend. "Grandpa is _so weird_. He has terrible taste in movies, too. But everything else he does is super exciting and neat, so that's okay, I guess."

Humming thoughtfully and bobbing his head in a sort of half-agreement, Joshua turns to the next page. This one appears to be a shopping list. For groceries, specifically. _Eggs, milk, butter, fertilizer, dog treats, ammunition, pumpkin seeds, irradiated steak..._

A good portion of the pages are exceptionally boring. Each one is much more mundane than the last, almost to a disturbing extent. On one page, there appears to be a poor attempt at recalling a recipe for carrot cake. On another, a half-written ballad sprawls sloppily over the entire page. Sketches are abundant and often poorly-conceived. There appear to be an excessive amount of eraser skids, as well, including those that seem to have been mostly unintentional.

Joshua frowns and skims over to a new page with a flick of his thumb, and is momentarily overwhelmed by the enormous block of painstakingly-penned words there, all written up in green ink. He briefly flips over to the next page, noting that it continues on just like that. He realizes, with a relieved sigh that brushes away his minor irritation at Jade's grandfather, that the rest of the pages were most likely meant to be a distraction or a spectacularly discouraging ruse. Joshua thinks that it was rather well done, himself. He had almost given up.

As he flips through the pages, squinting skeptically at the pencil marks and with renewed interest, the dog at his back grumbles something. Jade grumbles back in a much more exaggerated, higher-pitched way, indicating that she was not actually trying to communicate with the animal.

The canine huffs, leans over to lick the side of the girl's face, and then promptly zaps out of existence.

"I always wonder where he goes when he does that," Jade sighs, gesturing weakly with a hand. "Becquerel does what he wants, though. There's no use in trying to stop him from going off to do... whatever, wherever."

☼☼☼

Jane Crocker stands in her guardian's kitchen. 

Her hip is hitched slightly up against the marbled counter, an ear pressed against the tiny sliver of a crack between the door and its frame; she is an expert eavesdropper.

Today, she has decided to investigate her great, great grandmother's clandestine dealings. The things that she refuses to tell her about their company, the sly murmurings to the suits and nameless, faceless sunglasses who meander around in their sitting room, the reason why the lace curtains must remain closed at all hours of the day. But, most of all, Jane wants to know why she isn't allowed to mention her proper surname, and why she is frequently made to hold up some ridiculous façade of being a maid.

She isn't stupid. As the heiress of Betty Crocker, Jane only has to say the word and she will have dozens of private tutors groveling at her feet. In fact, Jane had spent years studying all of the things her guardian had wanted her to, among them culinary artistry and political sciences. She had even been able to study abroad many a time under the guise of an unlearned chef. Then, of course, there had been the trying lectures on running a company that her grandmother had subjected her to herself.

When Jane had still been very small, her guardian had taught her how to bake. Together and with the aid of a little puttering thing of an oven, they had created all kinds of goods, from lip-puckering tarts to heavenly pies. 

Much to little Jane's delight, her grandmother had declared each and every single one of her efforts in the kitchen a masterpiece. Jane still strives for that same lipstick-stained smile to be aimed her way. 

Now, however, her grandmother is doing her best to keep her tucked away and hidden from the world for some reason, and Jane wants to uncover it through a little sleuthing action.

It will be a trying and risky endeavor, like catching a strike of lightning in a bottle, but she is confident in her abilities and is sure that she will be able to cover her tracks and continue staying underneath the roof of the Crocker Mansion, no doubt about it. She has watched enough classic films and has read enough mystery novels to cover the basics of what she is about to do. 

She almost feels as if she has been preparing for this moment her entire life.

So, why is she considering backing out now, listening in on the conversation in the adjoining room?

Her hands tremble as she listens, a fist pressed tightly to her lips in case she feels the unseemly urge to gasp or breathe too loudly. The murmuring on the other side of the door rises and falls in volume, perhaps with excitement, perhaps with rage. Her palms feel sweaty, and she tries in vain to wipe the gritty residue onto her skirt. Jane isn't certain of what, exactly, she is listening to.

What she is certain of, however, is just _who_ is speaking. Her guardian, who has a rich and silky voice, tinged with a feral sort of growl that she normally reserves for cowing suits into submission. The other, the one she had previously believed to belong to just another nameless businessman come to beg for a role in Betty Crocker's unwavering regime in the baking industry, is just as strangely imbued with power and ferocity.

She had seen him come in through the door, standing tall and self-assured in the foyer, not even a briefcase or a file in his hands to give an obvious reason for his presence. He looked much like a politician. Smarmy, even. As she peeked over the edge of the stairwell, eyes searching for some kind of revealing clue over his dark suit, his face had twitched in an almost imperceptible movement, immediately drawing her gaze in like a fly to a sticky carnivorous plant. 

Then, with terrifying speed that bent on the almost inhuman, his face had turned upwards to look up into her own. With a stifled shriek, Jane had fallen backwards and onto her behind, and promptly scrambled to the safety of her bedroom. 

It was rather undignified and cowardly, so Jane plans to keep this particular incident out of her memoirs which she will undoubtedly write sometime in her late seventies. 

But, based upon the subject of the conversation in the other room, Jane is unsure if she will live long enough to do so. They are talking about her. She keeps her breaths short and shallow, ears perked and the metaphorical gears grinding behind her eyes.

"You think my heiress isn't a good choice?" Her great, great grandmother snarls and Jane can almost hear her long fingernails digging into the soft cushion of the lounge chair. Her guardian could eat the Big Bad Wolf for breakfast.

Mr. Scary Politician Not-Quite-A-Man scoffs, speaking in syrupy, but oddly charming, tones. "Of course I do. She's only a human, little more than an insignificant blip in our lifetimes. You can't possibly expect such a fragile and... frankly, _delicious_ creature to do anything worthwhile, especially when things start to get messy. Plus, she’s a little too vertically challenged for my tastes."

"I'll have you know that Jane's a glubbin' beast at the political game who can probably beat the shit out of any one of your people, Dick."

"Would you like to test that theory?" Dick Roman asks, grinning unnervingly. Jane can hear it in his voice, like a cold sweat trickling down her spine— a pulseless, savage thing. She shudders, and crowds a tiny bit closer to the door so that she can hopefully make out what they are saying more clearly.

"Right after I get finished guttin' you like the grimy fish you are," the Condesce snaps, fuchsia eyes narrowed at the aforementioned grimy fish from where she lounges, smoldering lips puckered as she studies her fingernails with feigned disinterest. "She's a smart one, sharp as a tack. Just a few more years and I'll have her workin' on publicity shit with those big blue eyes of hers. She could even replace Fieri**. Really, this planet won't know what hit 'em, and dear old Janey will be the least likely one to take the fall."

Dick hums, rolls his shoulders as if preparing for some grueling work, and then leans forwards in his seat to stare intently at her. "You wouldn't have made the mistake of forming... _an attachment_ , would you?"

Her Imperious Condescension does nothing more than glower at her claws in response. When the Leviathan sitting across from her gives a sharp, gratingly-infuriating chuckle, she bares her sharp pearly whites and turns her furious glare on him. 

Jane still can't see either of them, but the tension in the air crackles across her bare arms dangerously, all of the fine hairs there rising up.

"The plan's still gonna work," the Condesce grits out, the fins on either side of her face flaring, fanning out into spiky fronds festooned with golden ringlets. "This changes nothin'. And if you even _think_ about sendin' one of your cronies after her, I'll be sure to have you skewered on a golden pike and roasted before kickin' you back into that hole I helped you crawl out of."

“I’ll look forward to it.” The most disconcerting thing is, he _actually_ does sound as if this is something he is going to be marking and circling and underlining with red on his calendar. _Crocker_ red.

Jane presses lightly against the door, shifting it by not even an entire inch. Unfortunately, this is still enough to disturb a cobweb hanging overhead. It drifts slowly downwards, light as a feather, and lands smack dab on the end of her nose. The two on the other side of the door continue with their conversation-turned-argument, oblivious to the Crocker heiress listening in.

Her eyes cross as she stares at it, and Jane cringes spectacularly, struggling against the ticklish sensation.

 _Oh no,_ she thinks as she feels a serious sneeze coming on, itching at the back of her nose, tingling behind her eyelids and all throughout her sinuses. This thought only flickers through her mind for but a second before the explosion.

She sneezes, what sounds like 1/4 of an elephant's trumpeting utterly wrecking the discussion in the next room. Her forehead plows against the door with the force of her nasally outburst, revealing a very alarmed-looking Condesce and Dick Roman, each having leapt to their feet in preparation for possibly an entire armada of government-issued and/or paranormal adversaries.

Jane sniffles, nose still tickling traitorously and rather raw, and stares at them from where she stands in the doorway. The door swings shut again in her face with a light 'thump'.

"Gesundheit," Dick comments after a moment, voice muffled through the door.

Jane turns on her heel and skedaddles right out of there.

☼☼☼

Pollution is becoming more and more disillusioned with this whole apocalypse business.

For one thing, he has been replaced at least once when his siblings were trying to get together to start it up again. It’s hurtful and more than a little offensive. They didn’t even question it, didn’t bother to give him his own shiny ring.

The fella who replaced him, Pestilence, wasn’t even that impressive. He was tall, sure, and talked big with that disconcerting grin of his, but he was nothing more than a fly-ridden joker. Alright, maybe Pollution’s being a little tough on the guy, but rightly so! Pestilence came back from retirement and kicked Pollution to the curb, so to speak, and that was just plain cruel.

Now, however, Pollution is back in the game, having emerged from the oily, murky sludge that lingers at the back of every human’s thoughts, finally slogging out and landing on the fairly sparkling pavement outside of a very nice hotel in New York City. Cars whistle past, plastic bags drifting through the wind and catching on their windshield wipers.

In an instant, the sidewalk underneath the mint green awning of the hotel’s entrance was covered in what seemed to be a week’s layer of dirt and grime from the bottom of at least a hundred person’s grubby rubber shoes. 

A man holding a broom outside of the establishment looks on in horror as all of his hard work goes to waste, and turns to fish around for his brass brush so that he might use it to scrape the new dark spots of gum up with.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a man in white dress and with long, greasy fast food sack-white hair tangled about his shoulders waltz out into the busy street, grinning languorously as he goes.

☼☼☼

_Splurck!_

The ground squelches beneath Karkat and Kanaya's feet, a disgusting and slippery mixture of mud, scummy water and possibly the boggy remains of some poor beast from the last glacial period. All around are small marsh plants, sticking up between mysteriously bubbling puddles of muck. Tiny mudbugs and milky-clear freshwater shrimp squirm about in the dirt, and Karkat remembers catching them when he was younger and getting pinched for his troubles.

A good amount of shade settles over them, and they have long since left the leaf-covered murder hole behind. While Karkat's shoes and the ends of his pants are damp and speckled with mud, Kanaya's skirt someone manages to remain perfectly clean, as if she has just had it send to the cleaner's for a special occasion. Karkat is suitably envious of her for it.

Neither of the two speak to one another. To be fair, though, there isn't much to say. Or, at least, Kanaya doesn't seem to think there is. She seems more than content to just listen to the idle birdsong, but Karkat can sort-of-kind-of tell that there may be something that's bugging her. So, like the fantastic friend he is, he asks her about it.

"So," he drawls. Kanaya looks at him, simultaneously attentive, irked and affectionate, and Karkat gets a funny little feeling in his chest. "We're looking for some of your angel friends?"

"Yes. To the North," she looks away, presumably to the North. Karkat wouldn't know; he wasn't in a Boy Scout troop and never actually read any of those survival tip master posts on the internet that he was so quick to share.

Karkat has to forcibly yank his foot out of a particularly deep area of mud, the suction resisting strongly for a moment until his foot comes free with a 'pop' and a splattering of goop. "What's up with them? Are they, like, rebels or something? That girl back there was acting like they had gotten themselves into some deep shit. They aren't like, I don't fucking know, the Devil or anything, right?"

The angel beside him draws to a sudden halt, and Karkat reels around to face her, his shoes already sinking into the mud while he is still.

Kanaya looks sharply at him, lips pursed. "Who?" she asks, and then shakes her head as if to clear it. "Nevermind, your human terminology is difficult to follow. Regardless, I do not know the technicalities of my siblings' expulsion from Heaven, but I intend to get to the bottom of it."

"Alright," Karkat says, because that doesn’t seem particularly dangerous, really. After that, they continue onwards in relative silence.

A disturbing thought tickles at the back of Karkat's mind, niggling about persistently until he will eventually decide to finally acknowledge it. This thought is still ignored for a little while yet, unfortunately, and a very important matter remains unaddressed for the time being. It's strange, how one little question can change everything and still go unnoticed.

_Who?_

\---

When they finally reach the roadside, Karkat decides to ask Kanaya if they can stop for a little breather. She acquiesces, but continues to gaze off at a fixed point in the distance that Karkat can’t really bring himself to care about at the moment, because it is then that he sees their car.

It looks as if it has been torn nearly to shreds, tree limbs and branches jammed through the windshield and shattered bits and pieces of glass sprinkled all throughout the leather seats and across the hood. The car seems to have been forcibly dragged under the cover of several large overhangs of leaves, so as not to be visible from the road. It is clearly no longer operational.

Then, to Karkat’s immense and ever-multiplying dismay, he sees that all of his DVD’s are littered about, some having been tossed clear of the devastated glass windshield. 

“Oh no,” he exclaims, staring in horror at the wreck. “Oh no no no no _no_.”

Stumbling over the clipped dry grass on wobbly knees, Karkat makes his way over to the car to try and salvage as much of his possessions as he can, mindful of the sharp glass and whatever might have decided to crawl inside of the battered vehicle.

In a faint rustling of feathers, Kanaya appears at his side. “What are you doing?” she asks, sounding weary. She already knows what he’s playing at, but chooses to feign ignorance anyways for the sake of her peace of mind.

Already stacking upwards of twenty boxes within his arms and awkwardly trying to fit several into his hoodie pocket, Karkat pauses to look up at her. He has the decency to look at least slightly abashed before resuming his scowling and going back to trying to carry as many of his things as he is physically capable of.

“I’m not just gonna leave this stuff here!” Kanaya raises an eyebrow, as if to without speaking convey the message ‘Oh _really_?’ Karkat huffs at her. “This junk is priceless, is what it is. Are you going to help me or not?”

Remarkably, Kanaya does help him without putting up any more of a fuss about it. She does, however, make sure to shoot Karkat frequent looks of appalled disbelief over the tall stack of plastic DVD cases and trashy romance novels in her arms.

☼☼☼

Aziraphale looks up blearily when he hears a cheery chime come from his computer. 

In an instant, he is on his feet and squinting hopefully at the screen, fervently hoping to see lines of orange text awaiting him.

Instead of Crowley's chumhandle, however, cyan blue text that is identical in color to his own scrawls across the screen. It’s Jane Crocker, a soft and sympathetic sight for his tired eyes.

Although, worryingly enough, she seems to be having problems as well.

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] has started bothering bookishPrincipality [BP]! --

GG: I hope I am not intruding on your time Mr. Fell, but I could really use your help! This is most likely going to sound rather sudden, so prepare yourself. 

BP: It's alright, I wasn't doing anything anyways. 

GG: Oh, thank goodness, I have to tell someone about this before I go positively nutty. 

GG: Okay. My great, great grandmother is... not exactly who I thought she was! Or, rather, what! 

BP: ? 

GG: Shoosh, I will explain. 

GG: Today I decided to try and eavesdrop on one of her business meetings, and I must admit that I heard some rather incriminating things! :B 

BP: Like what? 

GG: Well, they haven't publicly announced that I am heiress to the Crocker Empire for a while yet. You'll remember that, I told you once. Do you? 

BP: Yes, yes, go on. 

GG: They were discussing that. My grandmother and this strange man. Speaking of lifespans and... well, this isn't a pleasant thought, but I think... I think they were talking about ruling the planet! A genuine hostile takeover! 

BP: What? Why on earth would they be talking about something like that? 

GG: I know, it's very surreal. 

GG: They also were saying that I am "just a human", and that I could be used as a means to an end in their dastardly plan. It was all very much like a bad Science Fiction movie scene! 

GG: I'm not foolish enough to think they're human anymore, either. I saw them, Mr. Fell. Well, not Mr. Roman exactly, but... he didn't seem right at all! And my grandmother! 

GG: Oh, what do I do? I can't keep myself locked up in my room forever… 

GG: For all I know, this could be the last human conversation I will ever find myself participating in! 

BP: Yes, well, about that... 

BP: Jane, there's something I have to tell you. It is of the utmost importance that you do not panic, because I worry a great deal about you at times. 

BP: We have been friends for a long enough time, and I enjoy our little chats on this ridiculous contraption. Also, I feel that my revealing this to you will be of some help to the both of us. 

GG: Uhm, alright. Go right on ahead. 

BP: Jane. 

BP: I am an angel. 

GG: !!!!!!!!

☼☼☼

Naturally, Jane sets up her emergency pranks and gags; a tripwire, nearly invisible to the eye, is set up scarcely two feet away from her bedroom door; when tripped, the hidden party poppers will hopefully detonate and cover the intruder in itching powder. Beneath her desk is a medium-sized pie cannon, for the smaller one turned out to be not nearly as effective as she would’ve liked and the large one wouldn’t fit as snugly underneath her desk. There are sticky lines of honey smeared across every available flat surface.

 _There,_ she thinks, stepping back to admire her own mischievous handiwork. _That will surely keep them occupied for a while!_

As soon as her feet collide with sliding gravel, she knows with a terrifying certainty that she is now being hunted. The mosquitoes are already beginning to prick at her skin and the ground is soft and wet. Shouldering her pack on her shoulder, careful to mind the sprinklers and glowing outdoor lights, Jane takes off into the night.

She will dip her feet in the nearby creek that she knows trickles somewhere in the woodland here if it means evading these hooligans, and thus throwing them off her scent for at least a few more hours. 

For, as some innate part of Jane’s mind no doubt recognizes, if a pawn reaches the other side of enemy territory unscathed, it will become a Queen.

Jane Crocker hopes to be crowned.

\---

GG: I’ve purchased your plane tickets! 

GG: You should be able to meet me in Georgia at some unearthly hour of the night, tomorrow I would imagine. 

BP: Yes, well. Thank you. 

BP: Take care, Jane! 

GG: Take care, yourself! :B

\---

The heiress scampers across the lawn, her white clothing cutting a very obvious and easy to follow white shape against the evening shadows of the Crocker yard. 

Several black-stained suits disperse out from the building, heads turning methodically back and forth, already on the scent. After a few moments, they too vanish under the shade of the tall pines and shrubbery, lightning-fast shadows crashing through the foliage without a care for thorns or subtlety.

Dick Roman stands smugly at the window, hands clasped behind him and an enormous grin slicing across his face. Much more subdued, Her Imperious Condescension glowers at his back, tapping out a few quick messages on her mobile with a talon-like nail. 

Her eyes slide suspiciously towards the other creature standing at the corner of the room, one of her fists clenched so hard that she cuts tiny half-moon shapes into her palm.

“Leviathans are the superior predators for a reason, honey.”

The Condesce’s tapping rhythm against her phone screen stills.

“The hunt, as they say, is on.”

☼☼☼

His name isn’t exactly one that people like to mention at fancy dinner parties. Dinner parties in which the main course consists of a few colorful bits and bobs of what might have once been considered vegetables and an unwholesome shaving of tilapia. It’s all a tad ironic.

Famine is pleased with his new form; it isn’t as wrinkly and ill-fitting as the last one, for one thing, and he isn’t as raucously starved as he was before. Glancing at the glinting display window of a shop beside him, he can see that, if anything, he looks almost as good as he did when the first apocalypse came around.

For some reason, Pestilence had decided to wheedle his way back into the world-ending gig as they were gaining hype for their second go at the end of the world. He honestly doesn’t know what happened to Pollution after that, but when Pestilence returned after allegedly having ‘a little chat’ with him, fresh lacerations covering his arms which were speckled with brackish goo, he had decided not to question it.

Unfortunately, history repeated itself. Things had still turned out much the same as the first time and Famine _still_ catches himself wringing his hands together from time to time and counting all of his fingers just to make sure they are all accounted for.

When he combs the planet for a pleasant enough place to settle down and regain power, he finds something rather unexpected.

There are over a thousand positively _famished_ mouths skulking about at the bottom of the ocean.

☼☼☼

The living room of the Lalonde household is shadowy, the only dim light coming through the shuttered windows and an open laptop's screen. A dark screensaver with colorful ribbons warping around one another plays, curling and casting strange shadows across the couch. A grey lump is nestled upon the couch, organic in shape and with a soft snoring noise coming from underneath it.

There is a 'ding!' from the computer, and the lump stirs, a long series of grumbles and swears streaming out from beneath the grey blanket. Another ding, and a hand reaches out to bat aimlessly at the laptop, only succeeding in dragging its nails gratingly along the grime-speckled keyboard.

"Gwuh," the lump garbles unintelligibly and rolls over to look, landing unceremoniously upon the floor in the process with a heavy ‘thump’.

A matted head of whitish-blonde hair pokes out from under the blanket, and Roxy Lalonde struggles against her trappings of soft cotton and limbs, eventually settling upon her elbows and squinting against the light from her computer screen. 

She frowns grumpily at her Pesterchum application, it persists in blinking cheerily at her, and she yields to opening it with a click. She’s curious, anyway.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]! --

TT: Roxy. 

TT: I am in dire need of assistance.

TG: what 

TG: rose its too early for this srsly

TT: I quit my job at Crockercorp.

TG: WHAT 

TG: but why would u do that rosey 

TG: i mean not that i dont respect ur decisions and all but tht was a damn good job 

TG: liek 

TG: a GOOD good job

TT: I know, but something unexpected has come up.

TG: like wut

TT: I opened an e-mail that I wasn't supposed to and was pursued by a pair of slimy creatures that have likely crawled out of an abyss deep within the ocean's nether regions. 

TT: I also have reason to suspect that my boss is, in fact, conspiring against all of humanity, and that there are unnatural forces at work. Unnatural forces that are distant cousins to eldritch forces.

TG: owow nether regions rite 

TG: u got urself a real problem there roseykinz

TT: That is why I need you to follow the instructions I am about to give you very closely.

TG: aight i got dis 

TG: mad followin to the letter skillz right here

TT: Yes, of course. 

TT: I'll need you to look around for one of my old spell-casting books. It should be in one of those boxes I left lying around when I first moved in but conveniently never finished unpacking.

TG: !!!!!!!!! 

TG: whoh 

TG: wait like srsly

TT: Yes. Now,

TG: omg i have been waitin for this day 

TG: shooshyeah take that hogwarts suckas

TT: Roxy, this is a very serious matter.

TG: u r gonna be so v impressed rosey 

TG: i wont let u down 

TG: im gon go get my wizarding hat

TT: Roxy!

TG: brb rosey 

TG: tiem 

TG: to do 

TG: srs magicks

TT: Roxy wait, I don't think that this is a good idea—

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] has gone idle! --

TT: Damn it all to Hell.

(If only Rose knew how spot-on she was with that statement.)

☼☼☼

They probably walk for not even half a mile more before Karkat is dog-tired. He stumbles on, however, although he favors the grassy roadside rather than the harsh, brittle road that his sneakers sending bits of gravel skittering across. He’s nearly worn a hole in them with all this walking.

His shirt is rumpled and smells plenty ripe from the river troll den, but he soon grows tolerant of the sour smell. It’s almost like one of those unfortunately frequent weeks where he forgets to do his laundry and ends up with a hamper full of all the clothing he owns.

The sun is still high in the sky, a pale sheen glimmering against a cover of marbled gasses. Grey clouds that forebode a light drizzle and carry rumblings of thunder meander over the roofs of buildings in the distance, and Karkat knows without a doubt that this is their destination. 

He just hopes that Kanaya’s family won’t think poorly of him for smelling like a pile of dirty socks that have been left lying in an unassuming corner for over a week.

Oh, who is he trying to kid, here? He couldn’t give less of a fuck if fucks suddenly became an irreplaceable natural resource. That’s how much he cares about what those chumps might think of how he smells.

Then again, like Kanaya, they _are_ angels. 

No offense to Kanaya, but she can be pretty frank at times, to the point where it starts to get bizarre. It isn’t quite the “I am an almighty being of pure celestial intent while you are an ape rolling about in the mud” he might have expected from a bad television show, but sometimes she seems to be fairly fed up with his wacky mortal antics. Her incredulous insult towards his interests is evidence enough of that.

Luckily for Karkat, Kanaya has all the patience in the world at her disposal. She deserves some kind of medal for putting up with him, that is for sure. He understands that he isn’t the easiest person in the universe to get along with, so he definitely appreciates the effort put through on her part.

He wonders what these other angels will be like despite himself. He can only hope that they will be at least somewhat friendly. It would be absolutely terrifying if there were entire legions of them stuck on the killing machine mentality that Kanaya so rarely reverts to. Karkat shudders at the mere thought.

As the pair draws closer to the town, Kanaya begins to peer critically over at Karkat whenever she thinks he isn’t looking. Of course, he is, and so he’s quick to draw attention to the fact.

“What do you keep on looking at me like that for?” he asks, frowning spectacularly at her. He swears that if she brings up his hygiene, now of all times—

She interrupts his thoughts with a smooth and swift statement. “You smell atrocious,” her head cants to the side, her eyebrows lowering. “And you _still_ seem very tired. Exhausted, even.” A crease appears between her eyes, and something like concern mingled with frustration merges in her voice. Like she blames herself for his perpetual state of tense crabbiness, and can’t believe that she hasn’t been able to find a resolution to the problem earlier on.

“It’s fine,” Karkat tells her, crossing his arms over his chest. When she continues to gaze miserably at him, he gives a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll sleep some more once we find your family. I’m _okay_ , Kanaya. Honestly.”

The angel nods once to herself, turning away. But not before she brushes two fingertips across his temple, fulfilling warmth spreading out from that briefest of touches. 

All at once, Karkat feels as fresh as a daisy. When he shifts slightly in his clothes, he notes that his pant legs are no longer damp or caked with mud, and that his armpits and the creases of his elbows are pleasantly dry.

“That’s kind of weird. But, uh. Thanks.” He says, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a small smile.

Kanaya hums, apparently satisfied that Karkat’s clothes are no longer trying to crawl off of him, and mumbles something under her breath that sounds sort of like “ridiculous, stubborn humans”. 

Then, she strides purposefully off. A gust of wind stirs around her, and the red skirt she is wearing plumes impressively around her legs like a blossoming flower as she marches down the street.

Karkat blinks once, twice, and then scampers after her.

\---

The beings he had expected to see and the ones he finds are very different. They are not as unruffled as Kanaya is, and stand as if they are unused to some weight settled upon their shoulders. There is, as far as Karkat can tell, no weight there at all.

Kanaya looks over at out-of-commission vending machine and goes absolutely still. He looks, too, but all he sees is a group of people in business suits milling around outside a rest stop. There doesn’t seem to be anything particularly holy about them.

All of a sudden, she takes off at a sprint that has Karkat struggling to keep up. He swears profusely against the tightness in his chest and the lack of enough oxygen in his lungs, but all of it is grumbled under his breath.

He isn’t so sure about making an effort to not make a bad impression, yet.

Karkat draws to an uncertain halt a few steps behind Kanaya as they approach, sort of unconsciously hiding behind her. Okay, he’s entirely conscious of what he’s doing, but could anyone really blame him? She’s like the safest bid he has against the mystical shit that seems so intent on murdering him.

He places his stack of movies on the ground beside where she has set her pile, making sure that none of it topples over, and eyes up the unfamiliar people. The greater of the two groups stares at them as well, as if trying to gauge just how dangerous they are.

In contrast, Kanaya is simply humming with excitement. But, she stops just short of rushing to embrace them in an ambitious group hug. Apparently she has noticed the definitely weird looks they are being given, too.

There is a moment of excruciatingly awkward silence before one of the three angels steps up. Her movements are almost machinelike as she stares unblinkingly at Kanaya. She reminds Karkat of the antagonist of the third Terminator movie, in a way, although to be fair she’s a lot less menacing.

Then, a small, unsteady smile forms at the edges of her lips, like she wants to seem friendly but isn’t sure how. There is no telling glimmer of recognition in her eyes. “Who are you?”

He sees the exact moment Kanaya realizes that her siblings cannot remember who she is.

Her shoulders tense like a string attached to them has been drawn taut, and her palms fall open only to grasp at her sides. She does not look at him, so he cannot see the overwhelming hurt in her eyes. Not yet, anyway.

“You… do not recognize me?” her voice sounds so small and childlike, but he can tell when she tries futilely to regain composure by the way her voice raises an octave. Karkat wishes that he knew what to say to make up for it. Maybe they can talk about it later.

The other angel shakes her head, the loose bun her hair is tied up in swaying precariously, but peers with interest at Kanaya. “I am sorry, but no. Should I?” Her eyes shift to Karkat. The others look at him as well, and Karkat has to resist the turtle-like urge to bury his head between his shoulders.

Kanaya’s jade eyes turn on him, and Karkat, without having anything he thinks is of value to contribute, shrugs his shoulders. She sighs, eyes downcast.

“Perhaps not,” Kanaya answers, looking down at her feet. The wind murmurs like a million woven sighs around them, and still Karkat cannot think of anything to say.

After a moment, she raises her head again, this time with a stronger resolve straightening her posture. Her hands fold neatly behind her back. They are shaking, but only faintly. “My name is Kanaya. It is good to speak to you again, Rebecca.”

Rebecca, apparently, hadn’t been expecting Kanaya to go ahead and name-drop. She startles, as do her companions, and tilts her head to the side. “How can you possibly know my name? Are you allied with another faction?” her eyes narrow minutely, but there is something sad and bleakly wretched in her voice when she speaks again. “Are you here to slaughter us?”

Looking appropriately taken aback, Kanaya gazes in disbelief at Rebecca. “What? No, of course not. Why would I…why on earth would I do that?”

The other angels look at one another, exchanging similarly inscrutable looks. Rebecca speaks again, grimacing. “Since our… sudden removal from Heaven, several groups of our brothers and sisters have split into assemblies with… differing agendas,” she starts to look increasingly uncomfortable, but earnestly gazes into Kanaya’s face, as if searching for something.

Kanaya frowns. “What sort of differing agendas?”

“There are some who would rather retake Heaven by amassing an army. We are the Penitents. We do not wish to pursue conflict and only want to live simply among the humans. Unfortunately, these… more violent groups have come to blows in the past and would view our vow to refrain outside of battle as a threat. “

“Sounds pretty good to me,” Karkat mutters. “I mean, the whole staying out of a war thing.” The fallen angel looks fondly at him, features softening, and he immediately averts his eyes to the ground.

“What is your name? I don’t believe you introduced yourself to us before.” She isn’t bothered by his prickly demeanor, thankfully.

“Karkat,” he mumbles at his to his shoes.

This results in a few faint gasps, and he finally looks up at them. They appear to be surprised for some reason, expressions agape.

“What?” He snaps, feeling like he’s been placed under a microscope.

“A prophet,” one of the unnamed angels murmurs, awed.

“Vantas, second in line after Tran,” another comments.

Rebecca looks upon him almost reverently, and then shifts her gaze back to Kanaya, lips pursed. “You are attending to the needs of an unrealized prophet. Why?”

Kanaya shakes her head, the dark curls around her face stirring gracefully. “It has been mentioned to me that he is a prophet, but I hadn’t considered it to be anything significant at the time. We have become friends,” she looks to him uncertainly, and Karkat nods to confirm this. Her mouth pulls into a soft smile. “… he is assisting me in my quest, after all of the misfortune I have brought upon him.”

“Ah,” Rebecca says kindly. Then, lips tugging downwards, she glances concernedly at Kanaya. “What about a quest?”

“Well, most of what you are saying is new to me, so my account may be skewed,” Kanaya starts, and then frowns in concentration. “I awoke, alone, in Heaven, from what I am assuming was a very deep sleep. I had first believed myself to have been struck deaf, for no voices accosted my thoughts. But… there was one other with me, still in our home…”

“The Metatron,” one of the angels across from them, a guy with brown hair and some stubble, breathes. 

Karkat almost asks something stupid, like _Isn’t that the guy from the Transformers series?_ Thankfully, he refrains from doing so. That would have been embarrassing.

An empathetic nod from Rebecca urges Kanaya to continue, although she appears to be deeply troubled by something.

“I was… apprehensive of confronting them, and resolved to search for all of you, below, on the earth. I was sure that this was where everyone must have gone, and a vessel for myself was easily secured.” she pauses for a moment, then speaks the next words in a jumbled rush. “I would be ever so grateful if you would forgive me for not seeking any of you out beforehand by communicating directly with the Host. At the time, I was unsure of what might happen if I were to do that.”

Rebecca smiles. It seems to come more easily to her, this time. “You are forgiven.” The others nod as if they wholly agree, and for an alarming moment, Kanaya looks as if she’s about to get all weepy on Karkat’s shoulder.

He chooses that moment to pointedly clear his throat. All of the angels bodily turn to look at him.

 _No pressure,_ Karkat thinks. _Nope, none at all. Fucking nihil. Nada._

“Hey, so, not to interrupt this prime Hallmark moment or anything,” Karkat butts in, and he is _so_ interrupting the prime Hallmark moment. It’s a shame, too, because he loves sappy moments like this, but he’s just remembered something that seems a teensy bit more important. He takes a deep breath before blurting out the rest. “But I had this really annoying dream the other night that was _such_ a fuckwhiffing incredible bucket of festering discharge that I wanted to tell you about. I mean. If you have the time to spare.”

Kanaya blinks at him, which is startling in and of itself.

“Um,” she says. Then, more confusedly, “What?”

☼☼☼

He tells them all about his dream. Well, most of what he can recall. For some reason, a good portion of it has been misted over, concealed from his memory. It’s like someone has placed a roadblock in place in front of it.

All he remembers is the name ‘Pamela Barnes’ and the word ‘east’, and then something about scrambled eggs. He leaves out that last bit.

Somehow, they find their way onto a bus. It’s a public bus, and because Karkat doesn’t exactly know _where_ they are supposed to stop there will likely be a large sum to be paid by the end of the ride, but the fallen angels had seemed to recognize the name he had revealed and had assured him that it wouldn’t be far.

If worst comes to worst, he can make them deal with paying.

The glass window he is sitting beside has water droplets dribbling down its surface, the occasional buttery orange streetlight’s glow streaming through in a blurry mass of color. Dry lightning crackles across the sky at intervals, a purplish hue surrounding the white-hot flashes. Thunder rumbles above the soft murmurs of those on the bus.

Kanaya isn’t sitting by him, this time; instead, she is settled a few rows ahead. He thinks that he last heard the rabble of angels murmuring earnestly to each other about the miracle of the Lord’s creation or something. He isn’t sure and, frankly, he doesn’t care, just as long as Kanaya’s happy.

His breath fogs up the glass and he has to stalwartly resist the urge to doodle a smiley face on it. It most likely wouldn’t work out properly anyways, Karkat reasons; the moisture would probably trickle down and give the impression that the face is weeping, and that would be just plain unsettling given the circumstances.

He dawdles though, and streaks a small line for a mouth on the misted glass. Just as he is about to add in the eyes, finger poised to dab two dots in, a flicker of movement in the dipped mirror image gives him pause.

Karkat blinks at the reflection in the window. Two eyes blink back at him, and then a grinning mouth peeks into view just below them.

Wheezing in sharply, Karkat falls backwards over his seat. The elderly woman clutching her cured leather purse a few rows ahead of him turns to squint in his general direction through her rounded glasses, the red lipstick on her lips cracked along the edges.

He does his best to wave off the old woman’s concern with a flap of his hand, doing his very best to conceal his mounting terror.

“ _Wow_ , Karkat!” Reflection Vriska jeers, flipping her hair and floating alongside the moving vehicle, clearly unfazed by the cars that pass easily through her form. “It’s _great_ to see you again, too!”

Glancing hurriedly at the old lady, he realizes that he is in fact the only person on the bus to have heard that. Great; he’s just as cracked as he had first suspected all those years ago. Karkat’s always been able to have his wits about him, even in the most dire of instances, however, and he recovers quickly with a pointed retort.

“What the heck are you doing here? Didn’t Kanaya kill you?” he hisses when he’s sure no one else is paying attention.

Vriska actually has the gall to pout at him. “Nah, I was dead loooooooong before that. You see, she killed the demon that was _possessing_ me. Or, more like, just my body,” then, more angrily, she snaps. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice! Geez, Karkat, how long had we worked together? That was _obviously_ not me!”

“Oh,” Karkat says, rather sensibly. This doesn’t seem to satisfy Vriska, and so she keeps ranting at him.

“Yeah, right, ‘oh’. God. And here I am, trying to help you out of all things. I should be enjoying my afterlife, but _noooooooo_. Some sketchy demon guy decided to rein me in and try to use me to get to you! This is so shitty, Karkat, you wouldn’t even _believe_.”

 _That_ gets his attention. “Wait. Demon guy? Using _you_? To get to _me_?”

Crossing her arms, face still contorted into a frown, Vriska nods. “Yeah. A right fucker he is, a King of Hell or something like that. I don’t even get why you’re so important, like, you’re a limp noodle with no admirable assets. _At all_.”

He scowls and grits his teeth, but grudgingly nods after a moment. He’s got to keep her talking, after all. Not that he doesn’t exactly disagree with her, but, still.

His agreement has the desired result, and Vriska prattles on.

“It’s got to do with you being a prophet of the Lord. See, there’s another prophet right now, and he’s still alive and kicking. But demon guy wants to catch all the prophets to make a point about how totally expendable you guys are or something. Or maybe he just wants to exterminate your kind. It’s really out there, but I have pretty much no say in the matter.”

She scratches the underside of her chin, seeming thoughtful and a touch melancholy. “You know, he hasn’t called me back for a while. Maybe he’s forgotten about me. I’ve just been sort of floating around here, watching people get on with their lives. I guess it’s good to know that I’ve got a long leash, but it’s no fun if you can’t _do_ anything, you know?”

Karkat actually feels genuinely bad for her. That can’t be an all too pleasant existence, waiting around for someone to call upon you to do their bidding against your will, after having been denied a chance at eternal rest. He kind of wants to say something to make her feel better, maybe apologize or something, but he isn’t sure what that could possibly accomplish. Probably nothing.

Suddenly, Ghost Vriska’s image flickers a little, jittering and stretching strangely. Staticky noise shifts wildly around the edges of her incorporeal form, buzzing like a hive of angry bees that only Karkat seems to be able to hear. “Oh, shit. I spoke to soon, didn’t I?”

She looks at him, and her voice fades in and out like an out-of-range radio station, even while she is practically screaming at him. Her voice crackles and snaps at him, a dying, ghostly campfire. “Don’t go- without— angel— ugh!”

There is one last stuttering, sharp fizzle, and then she is gone.

 _Well,_ Karkat thinks. _That succeeded in making absolutely no fucking sense, at all._

☼☼☼

The first thought that had crossed Kanaya’s mind upon seeing three of her kin again was _My, how they have grown!_ The succeeding thought to come was a much more somber one: _But why are they looking at me as if they don’t know who I am?_

It had been a distressing blow to her usual self-assurance, but thankfully it had only lowered her spirits for a single short and desperate moment where she was floundering to regain her unflappable composure. Now, in the company of her fellows on this ‘bus’, she is feeling agreeably content. 

The voices of the rest of the Host stir at the back of her mind, but only weakly.

She has been discussing the movement and driving factors behind the actions of Bartholomew and Malachi with Rebecca, which has yet to yield any satisfying results. Apparently, there is still a lot of information that Kanaya is not yet privy to; her siblings have done their best to fill in the gaps, but she feels as if there might be something very key to the story that is being left out.

“Wait,” she interrupts Rebecca when one word in particular stands out, who promptly stops speaking and gives her an expectant look. “What are… demons? If I might ask?”

Her other two siblings, heretofore engaged in private conversations of their own, look sharply over at her. Kanaya immediately shrinks in on herself a tad, wings puffing up in indignant challenge. Apparently this is something that she should know, and there is no reason to be ashamed for not knowing, but she has always been a bit bull-headed.

“You don’t know?” Elijah asks, brows furrowed in confusion.

“No?” Kanaya asks in return, equally befuddled but trying to seem serene and poised.

Apparently Kanaya’s façade isn’t working, for Rebecca gives her a sympathetic look. “You must have been asleep for a very long time, sister,” she pauses, hesitates, and then asks, “Do you… recall the Morningstar’s descent into the Cage?”

“…no?” Goodness, things just keep getting more and more complex. She is starting to doubt that she has ever understood anything at all based upon how well this conversation is going.

“Ah.” Rebecca says, nodding to herself. She gives a Look to the other two Penitents before turning once more to face Kanaya. “Well, this is going to be… potentially very difficult for you to understand, as you were not there when it happened.”

“Yes?” Kanaya frowns.

“Lucifer was cast into Hell by Michael for going against our Lord’s word. He corrupted the human soul, thus creating demonkind and defiling humanity,” she watches as Kanaya’s face goes through a range of rather violent emotions, and then continues talking, albeit more hurriedly than before. “As of right now, he is still confined to the Cage, although Michael is there with him. They are, erm, fighting, but not as how it was destined to be on the Earth.”

There is a beat of silence as Kanaya considers this information. As Rebecca watches, her mouth opens, face twisted into a stormy-eyed scowl.

“WHAT?!”***

Her voice carries so deafeningly that the bus driver almost swerves into oncoming traffic.

At the back of the bus, Karkat scrambles to catch all of his rom-coms that have gone flying across the aisle.

☼☼☼

The door to Pamela Barnes’s house swings open before Karkat’s brain even begins to parse the script for how to go about turning the doorknob. She smiles readily at them, a menagerie of secrets and prophetic visions swirling in her dark eyes. He thinks that this stranger could probably out-do him in the whole prophecy gig.

“So,” she says, conversationally, to a very dumbfounded Karkat, who still has his arm stuck out to open the door. When he at last notices this, the arm is quick to fall back to his side. “You’re one of the extra prophets.”

He nods, dumbly, and looks back at Kanaya for backing. Unfortunately for Karkat, the group of angels meanders further down the drive, murmuring urgently to Kanaya and glancing over at the two humans as if unsure about approaching. The green-eyed angel gives him a little nod, gesturing with a hand as if to say ‘hold on a second, we’ll be right there, hold onto your goddamn horses for chrissakes.’

Karkat nearly leaps out of his skin when an unexpected voice from beside him drags him out of the, honestly, fucking _preposterous_ inner monologue that he has created for Kanaya.

“I hadn’t expected you to be so scrawny and, to be honest, foresight does nothing for your weight. It’s like one of those cameras that add on ten pounds, you know the ones.”

Pamela Barnes offers a hand for him to shake. He does so, and notes with some surprise how her hands are comfortably warm like the sallow stones before a lit hearth. It is strange, how meeting this perfect stranger feels like something of a homecoming.

“Karkat Vantas, huh? I’m Pamela Barnes, but you already know that, don’t you?” her eyes shift to Kanaya, appraising her for a moment, and then to the other angels snooping nearby. Pamela’s lips twist into a knowing smirk. “It seems that you’ve got yourself an angel on your shoulder. Several, but only one with her wings. How about that.”

Karkat can’t really come up with a good response to that, and so he simply nods. Pamela looks at him for a moment, eyes softening somewhat at whatever she sees.

She opens the front door wide, stepping aside and gesturing with an arm for them to enter. “Come on in, then. Pizza’s still warm and on the counter. I’ve got a few calls to make, so try not to shatter any windows or blind me. Thanks, I’ll appreciate it.”

\---

Karkat had missed the pleasant comfort of a warm meal and a notably safe place to crash in. He hopes that this will become a regular thing for him.

This Pamela lady turned out to be an alright person; he can see why the mysterious dream voice recommended her. Sure, she seems to hold some reserved feelings towards the angels for, oh yeah, _burning her fucking eyes out_ , but apparently she gets that it was an accident and most of this has been long forgiven.

Still, though. Karkat doesn’t think he would be very forgiving if it were _his_ eyes that were burnt right out of their sockets.

Now that he has food settled nicely in his stomach and Kanaya nibbling hesitantly at a slice of gooey cheese pizza sitting next to him on the couch, Karkat is more than willing to listen to whatever Pamela— a psychic, how about that! — has to say about his destiny.

If only his destiny didn’t sound so bleak, that is.

“I’m seriously going to be doing that?” He demands, half-hysterical. Kanaya places a comforting hand on his shoulder, abandoning her pizza slice for but a moment. It doesn’t exactly help much, but he appreciates the effort. “There’s no way that I’m going to do that.”

Pamela sighs, rubbing at a stubborn crease between her eyebrows. “The details are a little musty, so it must not be exactly set in stone yet. But _yes_ , you’re going to be doing that.”

“Well,” Karkat says, completely at a loss for how to deal with the news that he has been given. He flounders for words, finally settling on a good one to perfectly describe his current situation. “Shit.”

The angels in the room bob their heads sympathetically from where they are intermittently perched on random pieces of furniture. Pamela shrugs.

“I’ve called up a few friends of mine to help you out. The Winchesters. I don’t think you’ve met them…?” 

Karkat shakes his head. No, he hasn’t, but he hopes they’re as ready to lend a hand as Pamela says they will be. Most of the angels in the room save for Kanaya immediately perk up.

“Uh-huh.” Karkat says noncommittally, mostly preoccupied with thinking about taking a nap later on. Wow, he is so bushed. At this rate, he will probably have to ask Kanaya to carry him to the nearest sleeping domicile.

After a few more attempts at discussion are made, Pamela seems to pick up on his tiredness and shows him to a tiny guest bedroom at the back of the house. Kanaya trails behind and settles at the foot of the bed once Pamela has left, her brows lowered as if in deep thought. 

She doesn’t say anything, and so Karkat has no qualms about passing out straightaway.

His sleep is mercifully dreamless.

☼☼☼

A red-haired woman stands at the center of a bar. All around her are the corpses of leather clad men, dark crimson blood pooling around them, fresh by only a few minutes. Their toppled bikes lay outside, her own fiery crimson motorcycle wildly parked nearby.

War is ever so glad to be back to this form, thanks to the warring of newly-fallen angels. It’s nice, snugger, and that Red Mustang was shit compared to her kickass bike. Maybe if she’s lucky she can even find her sword again; that pansy _ring_ business was silly.

She carefully picks her way around the room, twirling a lock of her hair around a finger and with a perilous cast-iron certainty simmering in her orange eyes and creasing around her quirked blood-red lips.

“Aww,” War croons, tipping a dead angel’s head this way and that to get a better look at his vessel’s face. “Your meat suit was awfully cute. It’s too bad you’re dead; I bet you would’ve been willing to _kill_ for me.”

The Red Horseman releases the corpse’s chin, causing its head to fall back into the strewn gore with a sickening ‘splat’. 

Before she can move on to inspect another body, War goes utterly still. Her orange-gold eyes focus on something in the distance, head canting slowly to the side as she regards far-off skirmishes of a similar nature to this one, debatably even more bloody and vicious.

“Oh,” she says, tickled pink by this new development. “ _There_ you are.”

☼☼☼

\-- bookishPrincipality [BP] has started exalting flashBastard [FB]! –-

BP: Crowley?

FB: … 

FB: … 

FB: …

BP: Crowley???

FB: … 

FB: beelz isssn’t gonna ssshow up again right

BP: I should hope not. 

BP: I’ve done my very best to make this connection airtight against any dastardly hellish perfumes. We should be fine for now.

FB: okay 

FB: fantasssstic 

FB: ssso whatsss up

BP: As of right now, I am on my way to the Americas!

FB: what 

FB: how 

FB: ssssomething happened to your wingsss right 

FB: and then all of that sssstuff up top with the 

FB: the whatever

BP: Exactly! They still itch an awful lot. I think I’m molting? I haven’t given them a good shake for a while.

FB: yikesss 

FB: you ssssure that you’re feeling up to helping me out

BP: A little irritation shouldn’t stop me from being useful! But thank you for your concern, dear. 

BP: Regardless, a good friend of mine has paid my way across the Atlantic. They are in a very dire situation as well, I’m afraid. 

BP: We are to meet at the Atlanta, Georgia airport by tomorrow evening.

FB: well good to know 

FB: who’sss thisss friend of yoursss

BP: Her name is Jane Crocker. She is a truly delightful human. Very trustworthy.

FB: crocker huh 

FB: like the company with that disssgussting birthday cake mixture

BP: Oh! Did you try that one, too? 

BP: I thought that was one of Hell’s efforts.

FB: nope 

FB: thossse down below don’t abide by bad sssweetss

BP: Right. 

BP: Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you at the airport? It’ll be much easier for me to help you find the Bentley if we’re on the same continent.

FB: of courssse 

FB: i wouldn’t missss it for the world

BP: Wonderful. 

BP: Ah! I must go catch my flight! 

BP: Goodbye, Crowley!

FB: have a nice flight az

BP: You too!

\-- bookishPrincipality [BP] has ceased exalting flashBastard [FB]! –-

\-- bookishPrincipality [BP] has started exalting flashBastard [FB]! –-

BP: Wait. 

BP: I mean, uh. Not you too! Because. 

BP: I am obviously the only one who is supposed to be getting on an airplane, here. 

BP: Not that you couldn’t if you happened to want to! I mean, that would go against the plan, but… Oh, gosh.

FB: azzy 

FB: seriously

BP: Right. Well. 

BP: Goodbye, again!

\-- bookishPrincipality [BP] has ceased exalting flashBastard [FB]! –-

☼☼☼

Contrary to what some might assume, holding a position of power in Hell isn't easy.

Sure, you get a few perks such as the unprecedented ability to kick some major ass with a pack of hellhounds at your beck and call, and you might be able to intimidate an army of twisted human souls into handling most of your business for you, but it is still an awful lot of responsibility to take on.

A higher-tier demon abolishes by means of bullies and dictators, causes demons to be worshipped, arouses desires in ministers and priests, brings about mistrustfulness and killings, and instigates wars. Needless to say, there is an awful lot of time-consuming work to be done. And paperwork

There are deadlines to meet, deals to be pushed through and weepy humans to scare out of their wits; basically, Hell is like a corporation that actually acknowledges that it relies solely on its marketing team, and that isn't always a good thing for said marketing team when things start to tip downhill. Or, more like, when all of the souls start heading upwards.

As of right now, Hastur is feeling very harried. The current King of Hell, some bastard by the name of _Growley? Jerry? Tony?_ or something of the like, has decided to dump a majority of his work onto an unsuspecting Duke of Hell while taking care of the aforementioned advertising fiasco. That unfortunate Duke, as his blasted luck would have it, is Hastur.

Hastur stares at the moutain of paperwork setting upon his mahogany desk, a thousand agonized souls screaming in his ears. His left eye twitches. The screams grow ever louder.

A minor demon makes the mistake of trying to make use of the water cooler right outside of Hastur's office. The water-filled jug bubbles and gulps. The plastic cup the lesser demon is holding crinkles loudly, and Hastur's furious stare turns on the unfortunate demon, which promptly bursts and turns into a cloud of dust.

Hastur sighs, exasperated; now he is going to have to call for someone to scurry down here and clean up the mess. Otherwise, the Infernal Authorities might get on his case about it. Not that he couldn't just incinerate them, too, but that would only serve to make his unearthly headache even worse. He feels about ready to start clawing his way up the bleeding walls as it is.

He scoops the box full of files and written contracts into his arms, bracing himself for several hours of miserably straining his eyes and scribbling, and then jerks wildly as he is forcibly yanked Topside.

Thankfully, but also against Hastur's most enthusiastic wishes, he still has a hold of the box when he materializes on the physical plane. Damn.

Frowning, he peers around at the dimly-lit room that he has arrived in, and then at the chalk lines beneath his soot-stained feet. They aren’t exactly well done, but he balks at them anyway. It has been more than a thousand years since he has last been so blatantly summoned; he has a right to be appropriately bewildered.

Some potent warlock or witch must have decided to summon him for a ritual or to act as a power conduit of some sort. Although, Hastur supposes, taking in the lightly-stained cushions of a nearby couch and the soggy cardboard box tossed in the corner of the room, a sitting room is an awfully strange place to conduct black magic in.

“Wot?” he wonders aloud. There is a shuffling off to his right, possibly at the far side of the room. He turns, sharp features twisted into a frown.

A human in a loose cotton shirt stares back at him, pink eyes wide. That’s odd; Hastur didn’t think humans were supposed to have pink eyes, but he hasn’t been paying attention to technological innovations as of late and just assumes that there must be some shiny new piece of metal that’s done it.

Slowly, a bright grin takes up much of the lower part of the girl’s face. “Awww _yiss_!” She shouts, proceeding to jerk her fists around in the air and have an outstanding Victorious Moment, trampling a few pillows and bowls of summoning materials underfoot.****

Hastur is unimpressed. He is not a being to be trifled with. This would be an excellent time to break free from these – actually rather impressively drawn, despite his earlier assessment— chalk lines so that he might rend this puny, impudent woman’s spine from her wretched body.

He hasn’t even fully parsed this thought when a black blur darts across the room, scarcely a foot away from where he stands. It is small, four-legged and slinky, all covered in dark fur.

The demon glares around agitatedly, for this witch has a _cat_ in her service.

It had been an awful lot of work on the part of Hell to get witches and warlocks to give up the standard feline familiar. This work had included inconspicuously placing toads upon doorsteps and in damp garages, shoving care guides for budgies under the occasional pillow, and inventing the particularly devious and disheartening advertisements encouraging lesser humans to adopt drooling, sloppy-eared dogs to the tune of “In the Arms of the Angel”. 

They had thought it to be rather ironic at the time.

 _Never_ cats. Not _ever_.

It is a little known fact that demons and cats do not make for a very idyllic mix. Their minds are far loftier than any other animal’s, and they rarely condescend to supernatural stimulus, instead choosing to bite and scratch their way out of any demonic troubles, thus protecting their caretaker from harm if they happen to care enough.

More than a few times, Hastur has been on the receiving end of a spitting feline’s wrath. For some reason, they seem perfectly content while in the company of angels, but fallen angels are where they draw the line. 

He doesn’t intend to let it happen again; those angry red claw marks refused to fade for months.

Regrettably, he cannot kill the girl.

☼☼☼

When Samuel Winchester finally gets a moment to himself, Gadreel takes over. He finds that his host is standing outside of a cheery family diner, checkerboard tablecloths and all, and that the parking lot around him is suitably empty.

This would be an opportune moment to contact the Metatron. Yet, he stays his hand, feeling hesitant to call upon the Scribe of God. After all, would the Metatron not be displeased with him and become of a mind to cast him out once again, as he has been for several millennia?

Gadreel does not wish to go back to that. He wants to remain free from Heaven’s dungeon for a little while yet, even if that means seeing a frankly diabolical plot to fruition.

He ebbs back into Sam’s subconscious, a dim yet still faintly gleaming ball of light encircling and sheltering the human’s fragile mind from the more compromising memories that might give him away. 

The younger Winchester staggers forwards a bit on the gravel, looking around at his surroundings and at a loss for how he came to be there.

☼☼☼

TG: lol rose theres a duck of hell in our livin room 

TG: duke*

TT: A what now?

TG: ya hes totally cool 

TG: a lil bit rude but whatevs 

TG: omfg hes askin what im doin on the funny glowy tablet 

TG: he doesnt know what a pc is thats so adorbs

☼☼☼

Kanaya hears a rumbling from outside and the stirring of loose pieces of asphalt, the sound of grooved tires roving over a street.

She picks herself up from where she has been settled into the dipped cushion of the couch, smoothing down her skirt as she walks over to peer out of the window. She can hear a grumbling further inside of the house that tells her Karkat has been rudely awakened from a nap. There are other shuffling noises, presumably her siblings and the psychic approaching.

Her lips pull into an easy smile. Karkat is so very remarkable; if only he would put his remarkableness to a better use than coming up with new and steadily more and more imaginative obscenities to hurl at perfect strangers.

Still looking through the faintly-misted glass pane, Kanaya watches with growing interest as four figures step out of the car. The car itself is a large, gas-guzzling abomination, but there is a certain charm to it that she cannot place. It seems to be far better taken care of than the other vehicles she has ridden in as of late, in any case. 

The group eyes the house warily. Two of them, a tall man and a shorter one, approach the front step.

☼☼☼

“Yo, so like,” the scrawny mortal says to Hastur, waggling her fingers in the air for some inconceivable— possibly theatrical— effect. “What’s up with all the papers ‘n things? You on office duty?”

Hastur would roll his eyes, but unfortunately she has hit the pin on its head with a random guess. Bugger.

“No,” he lies, hunching his shoulders and glaring down at the woman. She is at least a head shorter than him, the top of her head just barely reaching his chin, and he utilizes this advantage to make himself appear as menacing as possible. He bares his teeth into fine little points at her, a reddish smoke sizzling at the edges of his form.

Her eyes widen, mouth dropping open in shock, and yes, _finally_ , she’s _scared stiff_ and will probably just give up on this little venture and—

“Holy fuckin’ shit, guy,” she exclaims. “You can’t go settin’ mah house on fire now. Like, I don’t even know your name of anythin’ yet and you’re already settin’ things aflame. Really indecent ‘n stuff, you know?”

Hastur lamentably loses some of the magnificent infernal-ness he had had going for him. The witch grins at him, cheered by this apparent forfeit.

She appears to be waiting for something. Unfortunately for her, Hastur is not going to deliver.

After another moment of waiting, she speaks up. “Sooo, what’s your name? I’m Roxy. Roxy Lalonde. Probably the coolest effin’ person you will ever meet this side of the solar system. What’s shakin’?”

Hastur stares at her.

The girl twiddles her thumbs before shaking a haphazard curl of hair out of her face and sighing. “Oh my gooosh, why is this magick stuff so _hard_. Rosey’s always _so cool_ about it, and like, I-D-K man, this is my first time castin’ serious spells and it’d really help me out if you’d, I dunno, try and be patient and stuff? Yeah, that. Just ‘til I can get my impress on.”

Hastur doesn’t reply, trying to mull this situation over in his sinister, bag-of-cats brain, and more importantly come up with an outcome that benefits him the most.

Lalonde continues to talk, scrubbing at the side of her face with a hand. “And, I don’t know, I guess I could do that form-filling crap for you?”

 _That_ catches his attention.

“You would?” Hastur asks, false-brightly. But also with a tiny bit of actual cheer— which no one should know about, mind you.

“Yeah?” Roxy questions right back, sounding unsure.

Hastur takes a minute to deconstruct his options and do a few hasty mental calculations. He arrives at a tolerable solution, although it isn’t necessarily one he likes.

“Right,” he says, and the witch immediately brightens up like a midsummer sunflower. It is absolutely sickening, and so he sneers nastily right back. 

He tells her his name.

\---

Hastur cannot believe this. Not only has the witch finished doing all of his work in record time, she has also succeeded in beating him at some silly human board game. _Five. Times._

"L-M-A-O ain’t a word," Hastur mutters suspiciously from where he is leaning over the Scrabble board, because really, it isn't.

"It totally is!" Roxy protests, a surprising vehemence in every word she spouts at him. He would be affronted if he were not already becoming accustomed to her excitable behavior. " _You're_ the one makin' up words, buddy. 'Sothoth' isn't a word, but I let that one slide 'cause we're pals now."

"Hm," the Duke of Hell relents, and goes back to silently regarding the few wooden block letters he has remaining. Then, he scowls.

“We’re not friends,” he says. He snatches up another one of the funny frozen sticks and gnaws through the package with razor sharp teeth, glaring vehemently at the score sheet that Roxy is keeping. He is convinced that she must be underhanded in how she records the points. There is no other explanation for this sheer absurdity.

“Oh yeah?” the girl asks, widening her eyes at him and feigning to be hurt by his words before collapsing into a fit of cackling laughter. Her laughter is boisterous, bewildering and _loud_ , like a faulty foghorn.

She dabs at her watery eyes with the edge of the blanket strewn across the sofa when she’s finished behaving like a bumbling imp. “Nah, we _so_ are. You can’t even deny it. You’re scarfing down all of my food and I’ve already done all that boring stuff for you. We’re like, BFFsies.”

His eyes slide to the feline settled atop the chest of drawers a few feet away, contemplating how easy it would be to murder its mistress. It stares back at him. Menacingly. He even thinks he sees the beasts claws dig into the wood.

There is a bewildering wheeze from beside him and Hastur promptly turns his head to look at the witch. Not that he’s alarmed or involved in this abnormal ‘friendship’ business she’s prattling on about; no, he is more vexed about what fresh nonsense she is about to spew at him next.

At first, Roxy appears to be trembling in terror. Then, her body rattles and she hunches in on herself, and the tiny bit of hope Hastur has been holding onto shrivels up and dies. She’s _laughing_ , probably at his expense. _Again_.

“Wot?” he snaps, glowering at her.

She rasps something incomprehensible that could pass for demonspeak on a bad day, all jumbled syllables, wild breaths, and distressed wheezing. He patiently waits for her to say something understandable, scratching at the side of his nose with a claw. It is remarkably akin to dealing with newly-instated demons, he thinks.

Maybe he could eat her anyways? She seems sort of scrawny, and he imagines that her bones would be brittle and difficult to pick out from between his teeth.

“Okay, so, I was thinkin’,” Roxy chortles, wiping at the tears that are sliding down her reddened cheeks. “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I just, I dunno, worked for you? Secretarial things. I’ve never had a super long-term job but my sister just got fired and you said somethin’ about repaying me, so like I guess what I’m askin’ is do you have any more stuff that you don’t wanna do or..?”

The worst part is that he actually stops to think about it.

☼☼☼

Becquerel likes the addition of a new guardian to watch over Jade. Joshua is a kind angel, more than capable of keeping her from running into the thick of things when Bec has other important matters to attend to.

This is why it isn't troubled when its master calls it. A whistle, sharp and short like a robin's chirrup, rings in its ears. In a flash of green, staticky lightning, Becquerel has zapped itself halfway across the planet to sit at its master's side. It receives a few wonderful scratches behind its ears for its trouble, and its tongue lolls out as it stares up into Jake English's smiling face.

Its master holds out a long metal spear, silver plating overlain with engraved gold at the middle, and clicks his tongue. Becquerel's head cants to the side, pointed ears pricked up. It snuffles at the spear.

"Take the Lance and hide it somewhere," its master says, patting its head and smoothing down its ears in the process. "Not somewhere too difficult or impossible to reach, I still want Jade to find it. But don't just leave it laying around. Make it hard for the girl, a challenge!"

Becquerel whines in response, its tail wagging expectantly. Its master seems puzzled for a moment, but his green eyes soon light up in understanding.

"Oh! Right-o, Bec. I'd forgotten to give you a reward for your troubles!" He waves a greenish, faintly-glowing calf flank around, before he tosses it at Becquerel's feet. The dog catches the piece of meat precisely, chomping eagerly upon it.

Jake grins at Becquerel and again presents the spear. 

"Do a good job and look after Jade, now," he murmurs as slobbery jaws clamp down on the ancient weapon. "Don't let Joshua come to any harm, either."

The canine shakes its body, white fur ruffling up and green sparks traveling along its spine. In the blink of an eye, Becquerel vanishes.

☼☼☼

The Bentley skids to a sudden halt, bumping up and over the curb just short of Roxy's driveway.

Without further ado, Rose shoves the door ajar, slams it behind her and jogs across the dewy grass to the front door, paying no heed towards the sloppily-positioned pink flamingo Roxy had impulsively purchased a few years back for aesthetic purposes. Something about "looking the part". 

She still doesn't understand why it had to be such a garishly pink flamingo, however. The store had had plenty of garden gnomes on discount, and those looked at least somewhat like wizards.

Placing her hand on the doorknob, Rose pauses to shoot a cursory glance up and down the street before entering. The suburb is mostly empty, a couple neighborhood kids playing basketball a few houses down. The occasional shout and whoop reaches her ears, echoing through the neighborhood. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. 

She takes a deep breath, gathering her wits about her and praying that Roxy hasn't done what she thinks she has done, and then pushes open the door.

An unassuming silence hangs in the air, pungent and terrifying. Rose is immediately on her guard. 

Taking ahold of a tennis racket reserved for reasons such as these alone, she treads carefully through the kitchen, startling when the tap drips loudly next to her. Nothing seems to be out of place, and there are no definite signs of a struggle amongst the normal clutter within their joint household.

Stepping delicately over an empty pizza box, Rose tentatively calls Roxy's name. There is shuffling and a heavy thump from the other room, the living room area she believes, and Rose whirls around just in time to see a disshelved Roxy appear in the door frame to the other room, an empty box of popsicles tucked underneath her arm.

"Rosey, oh my god," She grins, pink eyes bright, reaching out to take ahold of her wrist and tugging her excitedly towards the living room. "You won't believe this!"

Roxy's assumption is correct. Rose can't possibly believe this. If she were to, she would undoubtedly go insane.

Sitting in their living room, about eleven artificially fruit-flavored Popsicle packets hanging out from his mouth, is a demon. 

There is a distinct smoky smell in the air, and Rose is almost surprised that the fire alarm hasn’t been set off. Looking at the sigil drawn into the floor, specifically onto the very small wooden portion of their floor, and then at the various herbs scattered about, Rose recognizes that Roxy hasn't just summoned any old demon. 

She has summoned a _Duke_ of fucking _Hell_.

The blood feels iced over in her veins, and Rose only experiences the slightest hint of relief when the _very powerful_ demon has yet to look up at them.

"Roxy," she whispers urgently, pulling her jovial sister back towards her as Roxy makes to flop back down onto the floor. "Why is there a _Duke of Hell_ sitting in our living room?"

Lips turning downward briefly at being pulled away, Roxy's grin comes back full-force. "Is that seriously what he is? Huh. I figured he might just be tryin’ to impress. We're playin' Scrabble. Although he keeps cheatin' and making up words and things," she shrugs, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. "He's eaten up all of the popsicles we had in the freezer, too."

Rose inhales sharply, trying to make herself at more ease with the situation but ultimately failing to do so. The demon idly rearranges the wooden blocks on his Scrabble stand, evidently oblivious to the siblings bickering in the doorway. "You can't just 'play Scrabble' with demons, Roxy. He didn’t offer you anything, did he?"

"Uh, no, you absolutely _can_ 'cause I _did_. Ob-v. Also, he totes owes me like, a bunch of souls or somethin'. I told 'im I wasn't interested but he got all spooky and loom-y and you can't really say no to souls, right?"

"I wouldn't know," Rose says faintly, panic eating at her mind. She pinches the bridge of her nose, but doesn’t dare to squeeze her eyes shut in exasperation. There is a demon in their living room, after all. Any magic practitioner worth their salt knows not to drop their guard when around hellish forces.

Roxy continues on, cheerful and obviously tickled pink by her good fortune and her miraculous witchcraft mastery. "I also did a ton of paperwork for him; I think I've got a job as a secretary or somethin' now? So, it's okay that you lost your job! I got a real nice one. I think. We’re still talkin’ salary."

“Right. Of course.” The more Rose listens, the more uneasy she feels. Finally, she decides that this weirdness can wait. She has other, more pressing matters to attend to.

“Roxy,” Rose says, still perturbed and tremendously nervous. Her sister turns to look at her, blinking docilely in the face of Rose’s unease. Rose’s voice lowers to a whisper. “Do you think that you could… banish him? For a moment. Or for a much longer time. I don’t particularly care.”

“Alright Rosey, you got it. One totally banished Duke of Hell comin’ right up,” she turns to the demon, and proceeds to make a shooing motion with her hands. Rose gapes, taken aback. “Yo Hastur, get a move on!”

The soot-stained demon blinks at Roxy, affronted, and then glances inquiringly at Rose, as if just now noticing her. She resists the urge to make a mad dash for the door. Maybe she should have grabbed her needles on the way in.

“The party police are here and there aren’t any popsicles left, so, like, you gots to go.” Roxy flaps her arms in the universal gesture for ‘gtfo’.

Hastur rolls his eyes, latches onto the – piles upon piles of paperwork that Rose hadn’t yet noticed, what on _Earth_ , and promptly vanishes in a puff of ruddy, foul-smelling smoke.

“What’s up, Roseykins?” Roxy asks, scooping up plastic wrappers and peering critically at whatever garbled nonsense the demon was trying to spell on the Scrabble board.

Rubbing gently at her sore wrist, Rose takes a deep breath. Then, she starts talking.

It takes the rest of the afternoon for her to finish her tale. 

☼☼☼

Death has a problem. Well, less of a problem and more like an irritating thorn in his side.

As of a few weeks ago, a single reaper began to follow him around. Her hair is riddled with curls, dark and almost woolly in their sumptuous quality. She smiles delightedly at him whenever he happens to spare a glance her way.

This is peculiar, for when the Metatron expelled the angels from Heaven, all of Death’s reapers lost their wings during the fall, their feathers reduced to ash and the ability to teleport and reap gone.

This reaper still has her wings.

They are a startling burgundy red.

☼☼☼

Feeble flames gleam at the corners of her vision, the wax candles slowly melting into pools of glossy, vaguely-yellowish goo. The room is utterly dark, only the faintest outlines of furniture visible in the gloom.

Vriska glares hatefully at the ash wood altar across from her, and then at the many bowls of reeking herbs and aromatic plants surrounding the chalk lines she stands at the center of. Her irritated gaze then lands on the skull placed precisely before the toes of her feet, a few strands of black hair still stubbornly clinging to the sides. It is her skull.

The ghost’s upper lip curls, her incorporeal hands balling into fists; she hasn’t even been given a chance to properly decay yet, _goddamn it_.

“So,” the demon with the eyes that smile and burn says. “What did we learn today, hm? I hope it wasn’t to _disobey direct orders_ , because that wouldn’t be very good at all, now would it?”

His voice is so annoying. She wants to punch him in the nose. No, scratch that; she wants to kick him over a cliff’s edge and listen to the whistling of his coat as he drops.

Because she is unable to do all that, however, she only purses her lips and remains silent. This serves to further antagonize the demon; she knows this more from experience than anything.

“ _Well?_ ” He asks, that accent of his lilting and perilously contemptuous. Vriska wonders, distantly, how easy it would be to bust out of here and strangle him. Most likely not all that simple. She’s pretty much a rudimentary-grade ghost while he’s the King of Hell.

Oh, well. She can bide her time, try and amass more control while he isn’t paying attention.

 _For now_.

“What, have you suddenly become mute?” Crowley demands, fingers curling around an imaginary throat for a sound throttling. She frowns at him sulkily, but decides that maybe it would be a good idea to speak before he gets _too_ frustrated with her.

Vriska huffs loudly, defiantly flipping her hair over her shoulder and sticking her chin out. “No.”

“I swear, you teens are all so bloody-minded,” the King of Hell gripes, turning away to inspect a spot on his suit. It’s darker in color, so Vriska assumes that it might very well be blood.

It’s a good thing that ghosts can’t bleed.

A sharp tapping noise catches her attention, its source being one of the crossroads demon’s dress shoes. “ _So?_ This other prophet— he has an angel following him around, yes? What’s the latest news on him?”

The ghost girl crosses her arms, sticking her tongue in her cheek a minute before answering. “They’re heading off to check out some psychic named Pamela. On a smelly bus. Oh, and Karkat has four angels with him now. Soooooooo, good for him. That must suck for you, though. Being a _demon_ and all.”

“Hm,” Crowley hums, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Nope, I’m not too concerned about that rabble. They’re basically de-powered now, but this shouldn’t be of any importance to you. Being _dead_ and all.” He chuckles at his own joke, the bastard.

Vriska glares at him. He continues speaking, unruffled by her ire. “Anyways, you’re dismissed. I won’t be needing you around anymore,” and suddenly, Vriska’s spirits— ha fucking _ha_ , soar. Crowley waves an arm at her. “Sayonara.”

And suddenly, for the first time since she had been murdered and subsequently ghostified, Vriska has regained full control over where she wants to go and what she would like to do with her time.

Without saying anything more to the demon, she phases her way out of the abandoned warehouse and into a world of possibilities. As many possibilities as a dead person can have, anyways.

She knows _precisely_ what she would like to do.

☼☼☼

)(IC: aight you asshoals and landsharks 

)(IC: we got lobsta fuckin craysea problems goin on an i tossed together this list right quick 

)(IC: let minnow if theres anyfin else that has completely gone ta shit 

)(IC: now lets sea 

)(IC: we got the angelfish and the crabby prophet #these suckas seem familiar 

)(IC: some douches in plaid #outraygeous #i cannot bereef 

)(IC: some douches in shades #tha fuck is all this 

)(IC: janeys missin #lil prawn betta come back #sea if i eva look after some human again 

)(IC: rose lalonde and her sister roxy or somefin #ya and thats it #we betta get on this shit rn

Dick looks over the Condesce’s outraygeous— _outrageous_ , damn it— memo with the usual polite coolness he reserves especially for them. Then, the less-than-desirable realization hits.

_Roxy. Lalonde._

Of course, Edgar, being the apt individual that he is, acknowledges this fact to the whole memo. Dick cringes as the comments roll in.

ED: Roxy huh 

ED: Was that not the name of the human who worked with RRE forever ago and quit for no apparent reason 

ED: You know the one DR was all flirty with and who never did anything sensible

)(IC: W)(AT

CH: Holy shit 

CH: It WAS

)(IC: W)(AT 

)(IC: you gotta be jokin 

)(IC: <3 or somefin else

DG: I am unsure 

DG: It was an awfully clandestine relationship 

DG: Although mostly one-sided

)(IC: )(A )(A )(A

DR: Yes, well. I think we’ve had -enough- of that. 

DR: This memo is about acknowledging our chief threats, NOT romantic ventures.

)(IC: no wait 

)(IC: seariously 

)(IC: flushed or black

DR: It doesn’t matter. I was going to eat her in due course.

)(IC:@doggedRavenousness )(OLY S)(IT

)(IC: getting EXPLICIT up in this memo

DR: @edifiedDemolition I am going to be plucking pieces of your flesh out from between my teeth for WEEKS. 

ED: Yes sir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I think Jane would be like the perfect honorary grandchild or something for Az and Crowley, just saying.
> 
> **OMG, HEY, I THINK IT WAS MENTIONED IN SUPERNATURAL THAT FIERI WAS DICK’S PERSONAL CHEF??????? SO LIKE, PERFECT CROSSOVER MATERIAL. AYY, THIS IS WHAT THE REFRANCE. ALSO, NOW THAT I’M LOOKING, I’VE JUST FOUND ANOTHER CROSSOVER IN THE SPN/HS TAG THAT MAKES THAT CONNECTION THAT’S SO MUCH MORE BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN???? I AM EXCITE
> 
> ***[WHAT?!](http://paradoxspace.com/summerteen-romance/48)
> 
> ****[THIS dance.](http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/mspaintadventures/images/9/9b/Roxy_victory_dance.gif/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/220?cb=20150624133330)  
> So, was that an okay chapter? Idk, lol. Comment if you’re feeling up to it!
> 
> Also, a note on why I left Kanaya’s interactions with Lucifer on a cliffhanger last chapter; Kanaya’s title is the angel of Motherhood and Light. You know that. We covered this in the first chapter. (Although you should know with a quick Wikipedia search or whatever that she isn’t an actual angel. This is a nutty fanfic, after all.)
> 
> The line “Satan himself transforms himself into an _angel of light_ ” (2 Cor. 11:14), which makes a reference to Satan pretending to be what he once was to fool people into foul dealings, sort of accounts for that malarkey I’m using to make you question Kanaya’s true allegiances.  
> Because even the person telling the story can sometimes lie, aha!
> 
> (ALSO, DID YOU KNOW: Luciferin and luciferase create chemical bioluminescence! The more you know!)
> 
> Although, Kanaya is a beautiful cinnamon roll who is too perfect for this world, too pure, so. Anyway, I’m rambling now. Sorry, it’ll be a while until the next chapter! At least a few months, yeesh. I mean, unless I get more writing time in. I’m planning on this being a super long story though. 16 chapters maybe. Yikes, you’ll have to deal with this nightmare of a crossover even longer.


	7. [S] Prince of Hell: Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam Young wakes up on Derse. He is not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to post this, but most of my writing efforts for the past few years have been geared toward a website called The Omniverse PbP RPG. It's a super fun place and I love the people there. Maybe join me?
> 
> Anyway, here y'all go!

Adam Young dreams of a shadowy city with buildings tinted in all different shades of violet. Pointed spires jut against a sky made up of the deepest, far-reaching gloom he has ever seen, unbroken by stars or twinkling satellites, and an enormous chain links a cold-looking moon to the planet at the epicenter of the city.

He awakened there on a large, circular slab of stone, which was purplish-pink in color and had a crescent moon inscribed across it. It was mighty uncomfortable, especially with those strange new frilly pajamas he was inexplicably wearing, and so he slid off of it and proceeded to have a look around at the room he had found himself to be in.

It was all purple, mainly, and it looked just like his bedroom back in Lower Tadfield. He thought it to be a rather unexciting color scheme, all very repetitive. Kind of like maths class in school, but Adam would take a poor choice in decorating over numbers, theorems and formulas any day.

A window off to the side was thrust wide open. Adam peered curiously out of it at the spikes and steeples that lay far below, listening in vain for the usual hustle and bustle of screeching cars, pedestrians and general modern life. Not much of obvious importance could be seen or heard, although he did note that he was standing inside of a rather tall tower. Looking into the distance, he counted roughly ten other towers that might very well be indistinguishable from his own in their architectural scheme.

Turning, he gives the room one last cursory glance before walking out through the chamber door. His shoes papped softly against the hollow-sounding grounds. At times, Adam would happen across an open terrace, providing a wide-sweeping view of the hazy city. He passed a fair amount of time this way, meandering about lofty ridged pillars and lengthy corridors.

Eventually, Adam drifts down an empty, shady passage and into an exposed courtyard. He thinks he can see shiny black shapes puttering about in the distant alleyways and paved paths, shaped sort of like people and as dark as the starless sky. They gleam like the chassis of crustaceans; he wonders how on Earth he has managed to dream up such a strange sight.

He passes under an unexpected shadow, startles, and looks up. A golden ship is parked illegally overhead, suspended in empty air and linked by a long golden chain to the chimney top of a nearby building. An invisible wind causes the chain to stir and clink.

Adam blinks up at it, and thinks that he would like to investigate this suppositious ocean liner. His feet promptly lift off the ground, and the Antichrist finds that he is flying, comfortably balanced in space as if it the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it is.

_That’s a neat trick_ , Adam thinks, appreciative of this newfound skill. He soars slowly upwards towards the ship’s edge, legs hanging listlessly below him. It is a surprise that he doesn’t have to kick or flex his limbs to continue moving; somehow, he had always imagined that flying would be like treading through thick, sappy water. He would have certainly tried flying long before if he had known otherwise.

The deck of the ship is barren. Adam’s feet touch down lightly, and he eyes the large guns on the side with mild curiosity. He has a much better vantage point over the city now, but all of the glittering people seem to be hiding, still.

A shuffling noise sounds from behind him, like the scuffing of soft-bottomed shoes. He turns, surprised, and sees a brown-haired boy who appears to be a bit younger than him standing there, perhaps by a year or two; he seems to have just emerged from below-decks. They are wearing the same purple pajamas, although this boy’s shoes are of a different color.

“Who’re you?” the boy asks, his hazel brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. Adam returns the suspicious look in kind, although he tries not to be so accusatory about it. This isn’t the oddest dream he has ever had, but he doesn’t recall any dream-projections having such an acute presence of mind or personality. Or an American accent.

“I’m Adam. Adam Young.” (The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness).

The other boy nods, accepting this information for what truth may be. “I’m Jesse Turner. It’s nice to meet you, I think,” ( _also_ the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness. Can destroy and vanquish all of the angels in Heaven with a single word, purportedly.) “Do you know how we got here? I was in Australia just a little while ago.”

“No, I think this is a dream. I went to bed right before I got here,” Adam shakes his head, the golden halo of lightly-curled hair stirring about his cheeks. He tilts his stance slightly, gesturing to the passage the other boy has just emerged from. “What’s down there?”

Jesse worries at his bottom lip, shrugs his shoulders. “There’s some girl sleeping. I don’t know _who_ she is, and she wouldn’t wake up whenever I jostled her arm around. She’s in a real pretty dress, though. All gold with white stitching. Lots of frills. This must be a funny dream, if that’s what it is. Everything’s been going slow; I’ve been having the same one for nights now and nothing interesting has happened ‘til _you_ showed up.”

Adam agrees. This must be some kind of joke dream. Or a faulty one that needs to be mailed back to the dream factory and checked out so they can get a better refund. He thinks that maybe they should go see what all this nonsense is about, and maybe try to get the girl to wake up.

He brings his opinion up with Jesse. The two boys, completely oblivious to their respective titles as Antichrist, agree to go below-decks for a second time. Jesse admits that he hasn’t explored all of it yet, but that what he has seen so far is curious.

For instance, there is a full kitchenette, a slumping couch complete with an entertainment system, and a refrigerator that emits disconcerting, yet distant ‘honks’ every once in a while.

The girl in the pretty dress is a lot more curious than all of that, as they take the second hallway to the right and continue straight on till they reach her bedroom.

Her big, round glasses are strewn awkwardly across her face, halfway caught on her nose and making a desperate bid for the mess of tangled black hair that cushions her head. A spiral design, sort of like a galaxy, is stitched in white across her chest, and the rest of her golden, sun-splashed dress is rumpled up around her sleeping frame. Her chest swells with each soft snore. One of her slack arms is reaching across the bed, seemingly for a hunting rifle that lies upon the floor just over the downy edge.


End file.
